


Ordinary

by jackiestolz



Series: Ordinary and Recovery [1]
Category: Smosh
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 73,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1996086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackiestolz/pseuds/jackiestolz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In January, 2012, Ian Hecox is diagnosed with terminal cancer. He makes the hard choice to not tell any of his friends or family of his impending death; he simply wants to feel Ordinary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! My name's Jackie Stolz, you might remember Ordinary from the Ianthony Community on Livejournal. I'm reposting it here in order to have it all in order, in one place, and easy to find. If you've never read Ordinary before, don't worry about it, it'll be just like reading a new fic for the first time. Please enjoy!

The whiteness of the room gave him a headache, one worse than what he already had. His stomach cramped and he shifted uncomfortably in the metal chair. The doctors had run their tests, and gotten their results, and now he was just waiting for someone to explain it to him.

  
"Ian Hecox?" A man in a white coat stepped into the room. He was in his thirties, with thick hair and an athlete's tan. Ian sat up a bit, nodded, and looked towards the man hopefully. The last thing he expected was bad news.

  
"You said you were suffering from stomach cramps, mild to severe nausea, loss of appetite, and diarrhea, sometimes bloody?" Ian nodded once again, and noticed the look on the doctor's face. Sadness engulfed him, knowing something was deeply wrong.

  
"I'm afraid..." he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. He was giving a patient news he had never given before. "I'm afraid sir, that you have cancer. A rare stomach cancer. It's...it's in its advanced stages."

  
For a moment, Ian felt nothing, and then the reality of what was happening crushed down upon him. He had cancer. He had cancer. The thought made his head ache and spin, and for a minute all he could see was the whiteness of the room. But he quickly realized, if there was ever a time in his life to act like an adult, the time was now. He raised his head.

  
"So, what now?" he was surprised at how even his voice was. He wasn't even crying.

  
The doctor's breath caught in his throat, and he looked down at his feet, shifting them uncomfortably. It felt as though a hand was squeezing Ian's chest.

  
"You'll want to see your insurance provider, see what they can do. But...when diseases like this are involved, it's likely you're not covered."

  
"What does that mean?" Ian prayed the doctor wasn't saying what he thought he was saying.

  
"You could try paying for chemotherapy, or a surgery on your own, but this cancer has extremely progressed. If insurance can't pay, well. . . we'll make you comfortable."

  
Ian looked down at his pale hands, folded in his lap. He could feel himself shaking his head. He was sure he was covered. He was sure of it. He had to be.

  
"And how long would that be?" It came out quietly. Fear had removed the power behind his voice.

  
The doctor sighed. "Six months, maybe." He couldn't look Ian in the eyes. He withdrew a card from the pocket of his lab coat. "Here, call me after you see an insurance advisor. If you can get something worked out, great, if not, we can provide a care package. Either way, we'll be here every step of the way."

  
Ian nodded, light headed, and accepted the card, not looking at the doctor. He could sense the man was shaking slightly, holding back tears. He stepped out as quick as he could.

  
***

  
Linda worked in a little grey building, with a big brown desk and bluish-grey walls. She had files and cabinets everywhere, and as Ian sat in the rickety wood chair in front of her desk, she looked through one.

  
"I am sorry, sir," she began, southern drawl echoing in the little room, "but I'm afraid we don't cover you for this kind of cancer."

  
There was a silence, except for the creaking of Ian's chair. He was shifting his hands nervously, looking at Linda, waiting for her to say more, have a miracle come out of her mouth. She saw his hope and sighed.

  
"Sir, if you wanna pay for this yourself, the cheapest and probably the least effective method you could do would be a surgery, and that would cost over two hundred thousand dollars, not to mention you'll probably need more surgeries after that."

  
Ian stared at her in disbelief. What could he possibly do? His insurance didn't cover him, and he couldn't pay for it himself.

  
"Could I just get a new provider?" Ian still sounded hopeful. He was still convinced he would be okay, still convinced someone out there would give him all he needed.  
Linda looked down at the file as she closed it, guilt filling her. "There would be a severance fee for leaving our company, sir," she said softly, accent still present, "but I doubt any life insurance company would take you, given your condition."

  
Ian sat silently for a moment, staring at his hands, still twisting them nervously in his lap. He did not look Linda in the eyes as he stood and left. The guilty woman, unsettled, put his file back in her desk drawer, and rested her head in her palms, trying to block out the sadness she worked with every single day.

  
He didn't speak the whole drive home. The usually loud car was quiet, without Anthony or Mel laughing with him, or the radio blasting heavy metal or rock. He was numb, driving robotically, not thinking, not feeling. He pulled into his garage, glancing at the huge stack of mail, and headed into his house, tossing his keys on the counter. He walked without thinking into his room, and sat on his bed. He lived alone now, Anthony had already moved in with Kalel.

  
He took off his coat, and a slip of paper fell from his pocket, landing on his leg. He picked it up mindlessly. It was the business card from the doctor. Ian instantly realized what was happening, and sobbed, broken. Loudly, he cried, holding himself and shaking as the tears dripped down his face. He had terminal cancer. A rare stomach cancer that needed chemo or radiation or a ton of expensive surgeries, and he couldn't pay for it, and he didn't have insurance. He, Ian Hecox, had only six months to live.


	2. Two

Ian had cried for what felt like hours, until the pain of it became unbearable. He was now lying on his side in his bed, back against the sun setting in his window. He no longer cried, and was now shaking, the room silent save Charlie's rustling. Ian knew he needed to figure out what to do.

He took his phone from his pocket. Who should he call first, the doctor, or Anthony? Oh God, how could he tell Anthony? He knew his friend wouldn't take it well. And what about Mel? He shook his head and sat up, clutching his jacket with pale knuckles. He couldn't deal with his thoughts, but he wasn't sure if he could say anything to anyone. He looked over at his guinea pig, sitting in his cage.

"Hey Charlie." His voice was scratchy from the crying. "I...I have-" 

He couldn't even tell him. Tears rose to his eyes once again, and he clamped them shut. He didn't want to cry again, not just yet. In fact, he would be pretty happy if he could never cry again. Like running out of tears, or something. He shook his head and continued.

"But Charlie, I can't do anything about it. Six months, that's-" tears threatened him again, and he swallowed thickly. "that's all I have. Jesus, when do I tell Ant? He would be destroyed. You know him, you know how we are. I can't just tell him I'm leaving him like that. And Mel..." he trailed off, thinking of his New Jersey sweetheart. How could he possibly tell them. And his mom, oh God, he would have to tell his mom. Tears again fell down his face, quickly rolling down, dripping off his chin and darkening his jeans.

"I'm not brave enough, Charlie, I'm not strong enough. I, I can't just tell them I'm -- I'm dying. And you didn't see, you didn't see that guilty look on that southern girl-" he stood up, pacing around the room, beginning to get a cold sweat. The reality of it was so raw and painful, and it made his heart ache and body shake. He soon became aware of what he needed to do.

"I can't tell them. Not yet, Charlie, I can't. I'd get pitied, I'd get funny looks, my family would be destroyed, and Ant and Mel- I can't even think about it." Ian, still shaking, clenched his phone in his hand, stumbled over to his bed, and picked up the doctor's card. Taking a deep breath, he dialed.

"Doctor Marrow, how may I help you?"

"Doctor, I'd-I'd like to be comfortable. I . . . I need to be." Ian was still shaking, no longer crying, but his whole body was electrified from his terrified nerves. He felt more awake and aware of his life than he'd felt in a long time. He had always been content. Hard-working. He'd be with his best friend everyday, through thick and thin, and he never needed to worry. He never thought something like this would happen. 

"Yes, of course. Come in tomorrow, for some information and prescriptions. Can you be in at noon?" He could hear the frown in his doctor's voice. The man was clearly still upset over this stranger's dying. Ian shook his head, then recalled he was on the phone.

"No, doc, I, uh, I have to film Lunchtime with Smosh at noon. Maybe around four?" He could feel apprehension at the other end of the line.

"Don't you think, Mr. Hecox, that due to the circumstances..."

"No, sir." Ian answered firmly after it was clear that the good doctor could not finish his sentence. "I'd like to have some time being ordinary, before I become- before I become that guy with cancer." he heard the doctor sigh, and thought that perhaps he was angry and would hang up, refusing to give him meds, refusing to help. But after a moment, he answered. 

"I understand, Mr. Hecox. See you at four, then." He hung up.

Ian, shaking less, sat at the edge of his bed, and looked up at Charlie's cage, deep in thought. He thought about everything he'd never see, everything he'd never do. He would never go to England. He would never see that roller coaster down the road finished. He would never be an old man with Anthony. For a moment, he wished he did more. He wished he made his mom proud. He wished he asked Anthony out in high school. He wished he looked for his dad.

_No_ , he thought, _no, I've done great. I've had a great life, better than a lot of other people. And now I'm at the end. This isn't The Bucket List, this isn't a soap opera, this is just an ending._

He just wished he realized how great his life was before then.

"No grand adventure, Charlie." he said to his guinea pig. "No big 'oh, yeah, let's go to France, let's eat and be happy and live it up in the end.' No, I'm going to live it out as usual, keep everything ordinary, for my sake, for everyone else's sake. I've-I've had a good life. Time to finish it."

For a minute, the room was quiet as Charlie stared at him. Ian, dissatisfied, answered himself in Charlie's voice.

"Stop being so dramatic, you bloody poof." Ian smiled and chuckled. Just because this was the end, it didn't mean he had to go out miserable. He could, for awhile longer, laugh, and be with his friends, and be himself. Death didn't have to be heartbreak. Not yet.

 

 


	3. Chapter Three

"Hey, guys, welcome to Lunchtime with Smosh!" Anthony had arrived a few minutes ago, and they were now in the living room, filming. Ian, so far, had been completely normal. He wasn't as panicky and upset as he'd been yesterday, and he realized he was good at hiding his feelings. He could act like nothing was wrong, even on his death bed.

"Sooo," Anthony swung the camera around to him. "What're we gonna eat today?"

Ian made a funny face. "Chinese food?"

"Chinese food." Anthony repeated with a funny face and a voice to match.

"Chinese food."

"Chinese food."

"Chneese fud."

"Mrrneernenern."

"Gmergnnmrn."

Anthony laughed his signature laugh, and Ian chuckled. They grabbed their coats and went to the garage, with Anthony driving.

"Oh my God, what is this!?" Ian looked down in shock. "We're wearing jackets?"

"What? What the fuck?" Anthony backed out of the driveway and stared at their jackets. "Oh fuck, look!"

Ian swung the camera around wildly. "What is this? What is this!?"

"It's...IT'S WINTER!" they both screamed.

"Damn son, look at this hardcore California winter!" Anthony said, smiling.

"Ah, man, so cold."

"Snow everywhere."

"Snow literally everywhere. Like, we shouldn't even be driving, in such-"

"Such slippery conditions." They were joking, of course. It was cold that day, for California, about 50 degrees. 

"Oh, hey," said Ian in realization, "ya know what's a really good thing to do?"

"Sex." Anthony responded quickly.

"Sex! The way you move make me wanna"

"Sex, question is, are we gonna-"

"SEX. FACE DOWN, ASS UP, THAT'S THE WAY I SHAKE MY BUTT!" They both laughed so hard, they thought they would crash the car. Some part of Ian wanted it to, so he could just die, in some accident that was a flash of pain, then darkness. But he knew he would rather suffer all the pain in the world if it meant a few more months on Earth.

"What I was going to say," Ian took a deep breath, just overcoming his laughter, "is that it's good to actually order the food."

"Oh shit." Anthony laughed. "Yeah. Got a menu in here?"

"Yeah." Ian opened up the glove compartment and fished around for the menu. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I think some nice Chow Mein." Anthony took his phone from his pocket and gave it to Ian so he could order.

"I was going to get that." Ian faked seriousness for a moment. "You bitch."

Anthony went with it. "Don't copy my shit, bitch."

"You copied me, bitch."

"Shit."

"Bitch."

"Tits."

"Lint."

"Sprint."

"Mint."

"Tint."

"...Agent."

"...Rupert Grint." They laughed again.

"Okay, fine, you win." Ian said, defeated, and called the Chinese place. They drove, laughing the whole time, but Ian couldn't help but think of this cold day, in the last winter he would ever see.

***

"And now that our food has completly disapeared-"

"Magic." Anthony noted from his usual seat.

"Wwwwhhhat would you rate it?" Ian zoomed in on Anthony's face.

"I'd rate it...four out of five Harry Potter stars."

"Lovely." Ian said, and when Anthony gave him a confused look, he continued. "See you next Thursday! Bye!...bitch." he turned the flip camera off and stretched a bit, trying to ignore the sharp pain just beginning in his stomach. 

"Okay," Anthony stood. "I have to do some final editing on tomorrow's video, so you can either help me with that or start editing this."

"Whatever you want, man," Ian said, also standing. "What is it, two?" he checked the time on his phone.

"Why, got a hot date?" Anthony made the creepiest face he could manage. Ian rolled his eyes over-dramatically. 

"Nah, gotta get my flu shot at four." He said, walking towards the computer.

"Okay, sure." Anthony winced at the thought of a needle and followed him. Ian smiled as he turned the computer on. It was an excuse he thought of that morning. He actually needed to meet Doctor Marrow. Luckily for Ian, the next hour and a half was totally normal, with boring editing and texting Mel. There was no confession, no telling the truth about his illness, just normal conversation, joking and talking about general things. 

At twenty to four, he left for his "flu shot." He thought he was fine, until he got into his car. After only a minute of driving, he was softly crying. It was so much easier when Anthony was around. He could forget what was wrong with him, if only for a moment. But here, alone in his car, radio off once again, all he could do was stare at the houses he passed. Didn't these people realize how lucky they were? With warm homes and smiling children. None of them knew when they were going to die, none of them had a sick countdown on their heads. _So greedy_ , Ian thought as he passed them, _so greedy, how we don't appreciate what we have_.

In the parking lot, he wiped his tears, and went inside the hospital, checking in and heading to Doctor Marrow's office. He hated hospitals, but who didn't? Sitting in the metal chair, he remembered being there just yesterday, sitting in that same seat, being told he had six months to live. He shivered.

"Mr. Hecox." Doctor Marrow came in, shaking his hand. Pity was etched on to his face. Ian nodded, and the doctor sat behind his desk, looking uneasy.

"You'll want pain medication," he started out quickly, not beating about the bush, "and a sleep aid. The. . . pain from your illness will keep you up at night. I'd also like to recommend a therapist. Should- should this, erm, overwhelm you, he can get a psychiatrist to give you something for depression."

Ian nodded slowly. "I, um, yeah, I think getting a therapist would be a good idea." He knew it was, too, after all, he was dying.

"Alright. Here's a prescription for Demerol, I think at this stage it would be best to skip the Advil. Take one tablet when needed, but wait three to four hours before taking another. If you're in severe pain, or you've got heavy bleeding, ask for a ride to the hospital or call 911. I doubt this would happen until you're farther in."

Ian took the prescription and nodded, throat dry. He was almost in shock, the events occurring so insane and unbelievable that he almost thought it was all a nightmare.

"Doctor Rosenthal is a great therapist," Marrow continued. "One of the finest I know. Here's his card, wait-" he looked through a drawer and presented Ian with a business card. "I'll have him call you, if you call this you only get the office, not him personally. Expect a call tomorrow morning."

"Okay." Ian's voice shook. He took the card and cleared his throat.

"So, let me talk to you about this. It's all very simple from here." He settled in his seat. "Today is January 19th. You have, well, six months or less." He looked down. The look of pity had not left his face since Ian came in. "If you like, I could get you a nutritionist, but I think this'll be easy to grasp. Don't eat too unhealthy, cut down drinking, if you smoke, quit, if you're on anything else, quit, keep to fruits and veggies, and stay hydrated. Eight cups of water a day, that's what's most important."

Ian nodded. He was slightly annoyed that he would be pissing every two seconds, but he'd rather decrease his pain than be a stubborn prick.

"Exercise regularly, but if it hurts too much, just slow down. Don't do anything to aggressive -- Hell, I'd even recommend yoga."

Ian nodded, and in his head decided to adjust his weight lifting schedule to accommodate yoga. It might be girly, but it would be safer than dying from lifting a weight or something.

"Don't stress too much, the last thing we want for you is an ulcer. Get it? The most important things, drink water, don't stress. Call me if you have any questions."

Ian nodded once again, shook his hand, and left. While he was usually extremely loud, he just couldn't joke around with Marrow. The man looked like he was at Ian's funeral, for fuck's sake. As he walked to the car, he was grateful he chose not to tell anyone. The pity looks were brutal. _Thank God,_ he thought, _I'll never see those._  

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah some factual inaccuracies it's not too bad

 

When Ian was little, after his dad left, he saw his mom change. On the outside, she acted just as caring and loving as ever, not even her eyes betraying her, but she picked up a nervous habit. She cleaned. Whenever she was stressed, she cleaned, and she did an awful lot of cleaning when Ian's dad walked out. And when he saw her doing all that cleaning, and when she was that stressed over one guy, he promised himself he would never leave her, never cause that much pain.

He was thinking of that promise on Friday morning, as he was cleaning his room. He had picked up the habit from his mom years ago, and now he couldn't help but rearrange his closet before Ant and the guys came over to film. That is, until he had to vomit. Now he was kneeled over the toilet, trying and failing to keep down water and bile. Tears filled his eyes as he became aware that this would continue until his death, a mere six months into the future. 

Before he could start violently cursing, he hurled into the toilet again, and felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out to examine the unfamiliar number, then figured it was the psychiatrist Marrow had mentioned yesterday.

"Hello?" his voice sounded hoarse, and he made a mental note not to answer the phone if Anthony called at a time like this.

"Hey! Is this Ian Hecox?" The man sounded friendly, and actually pronounced his name right.

"Yeah." Ian felt nauseous and tightened his grip on the rim of the toilet, silently begging he wouldn't vomit again.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Rosenthal. John Marrow called about you, and requested we set something up. I'd like to say sorry about your condition, even though you probably don't want to hear my pity."

Ian sighed, still dizzy. "It's fine."

"Hey, Ian, I can tell you're feeling pretty sick right now, so I think we should just set up an appointment and talk then. Are you available Monday?"

"Yeah." Ian groaned.

"Good! Is three o'clock fine with you?"

"Just fine." Ian had his eyes closed. He was less dizzy, but his head ached, and the foul taste of bile remained in his mouth.

"Okay, then, m'boy, I'll see you at three! My office's address is on that card Doctor Marrow gave you, so you should know where I am. I hope you feel better and have a good weekend."

"You too, sir." Ian mumbled to the obviously older man. He hung up the phone and slid onto the cool tile, drenched with sweat and shaking. He was still for several minutes, taking deep, calming breaths. Finally, he stood slowly, clumsily removing his clothes before stumbling into the shower. He wanted to look normal, so when he had to film, no one would get suspicious.

The weekend passed, and to everyone else, it seemed normal. They all filmed as usual, with Ian being his usual self, and all assumed Ian spent the rest of the weekend with other friends, or sleeping, or whatever it was Ian did when the crew wasn't around. In reality, Ian filled a prescription for Demerol at the local pharmacy, and then spent two days cleaning. He dusted and vacuumed his entire house, and took some clothes out of his closet and dressers to donate. When that wasn't happening, he was either ill or sleeping. The pain had decreased phenomenally since he started taking medicine, but he still was vomiting frequently.

Monday came, and Ian got ready to meet the therapist. He had to be there at three, and home by five, so he could film Mail Time with Anthony. He told Anthony he was helping his other friend move, not bearing the thought of telling him the truth.

As he drove to the therapist, Ian prepped himself. He didn't want to be a sobbing mess in front of the guy, but he was aware he was dying, and knew this wouldn't be the happiest of meetings. When he arrived, he sat in an empty waiting room until a blonde assistant called his name. He was ready to meet an elder man, Rosenthal had called him "m'boy" yesterday, but he wasn't prepared for what he was about to see.

Opening the door of the man's office, he walked in to see a man sitting in one of two large chairs near thick, closed curtains on the left side of the room, assuming he was Doctor Rosenthal.

"Ian, dear boy!" The man said loudly, standing up, and Ian hid a laugh as he moved to shake the man's hand. He looked like a Santa who'd shaved his beard and donned a sweater vest instead of a red suit. 

"Doctor Rosenthal." Ian said, as the man shook his hand roughly, a huge smile on his face.

"Please, please," the doctor said, motioning for the two of them to sit down, "call me Kris."

Kringle? Ian thought in his head, then quickly suppressed a giggle. "Yes, sir- Kris."

"Okay, then," said Kris, and he slowly sat down, "Let's not talk about anything extreme just yet. Let's talk about you. How old are you, boy, what do you do for a living?"

Ian made himself comfortable in the large plush chair he had next to Kris'. "Uh, I'm twenty four right now, and I make money off my youtube videos."

Kris leaned forward, actually interested. "Youtube, eh? That website with the little kid who bites his brother?"

"Yeah, his name was Charlie."

"Oh, oh I see, but it's for acting too, right?"

"Yeah." Despite how ridiculous working on youtube might sound, Ian was proud to say he was an actor. He made decent money and he got it from doing what he loved.

"And how's your family? Life at home?" Kris peered down at him through his spectacles.

"It's, it's good. I um,I live alone, my sister's over in Pennsylvania, and my mom lives about a half hour away." He thought for a moment of Adrian, and felt a sad pang of nostalgia.

"Ah, that's good. Good relationship with your mom?"

"Oh, yeah," Ian answered immediately. He knew guys who hated their moms, and he considered himself lucky to be so close to her. "She comes over a lot, she's in a lot of our videos." Kris studied him for a moment, and Ian felt apprehension.

"And what about your father? Do you see him?" Ian looked down, then shook his head. He rarely talked about his dad.

"Dad ran off when we were little. I never saw him again. I don't remember him, but mom says he was a pretty average guy." he twisted his hands nervously, which he could feel Kris noting.

"And, because you're such a good kid, you protected your mom, and you've loved her a lot since then. She never remarried, so you're still protecting her now." Kris adjusted his glasses a bit, then looked at Ian for conformation. Ian's mouth was opened slightly.

"How did you know she never remarried?" Ian asked, nervously.

"I hope you don't take offense to this, because it's really nothing to be offended by, but I noticed your pupils dilated when I called you 'my boy.' You never had an older man give you any approval in life, so you enjoyed the fatherly feeling, but you've never felt abused by an older man, because you would've gotten annoyed when I called you that."

Ian stared and nodded. Kris shifted in his seat and gave him a polite smile. He was intelligent, but at the same time one of the warmest men Ian had ever met.

"I think we've had enough for today, Ian." Kris stood, and Ian followed suit. "I say we do this every Monday, for an hour, okay?" He gave Ian a hard pat on the shoulder, and Ian smiled and nervously agreed.

"Splendid, boy! I'll have the secretary, her name's Ruby, give you some paperwork, and I'll see you next Monday, lad!" He showed Ian to the door, and Ian filled out the paperwork he needed to before heading home.

***

"Welcome to another Ian is Bored, we're gonna open up some mail for you guys today!" Anthony was back, and they were preparing to empty two bins and some large packages on to the ground and open some fan mail. "Ah, let's do this!" Anthony screamed like a wrestler as he dumped the mail.

"Ugh, yeah, dump that mail." Ian joked around. Anthony laughed and sat down, reaching for a letter.

Ian acted like everything was normal, but of course it was all a painful, but necessary, lie. While he tore open mail, he thought of his therapy session. He thought he would be going to therapy to come to terms with his death, not his life. Sure, he knew it was flawed, he hadn't had the perfect life, but it was great all the same. Maybe it was just part of the process? Either way, he wasn't sure if he wanted to go back. Kris was a great guy, but Ian felt like a loon for going. He sighed and kept opening mail.

"Dude, look at this, Japanese Pokemon cards! Oh my God, this looks-"

"Holy shit, that's a penis." Ian interrupted Anthony.

"That Pokemon looks just like a penis."

"Seriously, I'm not even sure if we can show that, dude, let's censor that."

"Yeah, no, I agree, I'm just thinking of some little kid playing with this-"

"Penis, I choose you!" They both fell over laughing. The rest of the evening followed in the same way, and while Anthony made the situation unknowingly easier for Ian, Ian couldn't stop thinking of therapy. Was he ready for it? Or, was he ready to risk not going, with unknown consequences?

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gone a whole week, finally updating! Thanks for reading guys :)

The week passed just as the weekend had. When everyone was filming, Ian was a normal guy, hiding his nausea, hiding his pain. When he and Anthony were editing, he acted bored, and hid his cramps. When he texted Mel, he acted like everything was fine, hiding his tears, hiding his knowledge that he would be dead before August. Hell, having Anthony around even made him feel better. For a few minutes, Ian could actually forget the pain.

But when he was alone, Ian was changed. He bought some yoga DVD's, cleaned his room persistently, and spent time in between crying, sleeping, or being ill in the bathroom. Having a stomach disease messed with his whole body, and he could easily feel the effects. On Wednesday, he went to the supermarket and bought fruits and vegetables, low fat milk, and oatmeal, instead of soda or burgers. He put his health food in the back of the fridge, and hoped Anthony wouldn't notice when he came over for Lunchtime with Smosh the next day.

"Hey everyone! Welcome to another episode of Lunchtime with Smosh!"

"Doodoodoodolittydooo!" Anthony sang the theme song behind him. Ian smiled, turning the camera towards him.

"So todaaaaay," Anthony drew out the word, "We're gonna get some Thai food!" _Oh God_ , Ian thought, _his stomach_. He would never handle that. The last thing he wanted was to be sick in front of Anthony, especially when getting sick lately was always painful, messy, and just embarrassing.

"Dude, you want something else? Not really in the mood for burning my mouth off." Ian said, distracted, attempting to get him to choose something else. Any fast food would do damage, but he thought maybe some vegetable Low Mein would be okay. Anything over Thai food.

"No, man, I think we should get some Thai food. Let's be fearless motherfuckers." Anthony went to the kitchen to get the menu from the napkin drawer. Behind him, Ian hid how panicked he was. It had only been a week since he found out, could he really already be blowing it?

"Hey, yeah, I'd like to place an order." Ian came out of his stupor and rushed to pick something out. He quickly chose something with vegetables, requesting it not too spicy, and they were in Ian's car about five minutes later.

"Oh, man, nice- oh that's a guy." Ian said, joking about a guy walking on the sidewalk. He was wearing shorts, despite the chill, and had the hairiest legs they'd ever seen. Anthony laughed and wolf whistled. Ian tried to copy him, but did poorly, and yelled "FAIL!" instead.

"Waitin' for our food, waitin' for our food..." Anthony was singing a short time later in the restaurant. 

"I'll try not to repeat our first Thai food adventure." Ian joked. He knew later they would throw in a clip of Ian dropping the food, and then the two of them crying from how spicy their food was.

"Oh, man, that was literally the worst day of my life." Anthony shook his head seriously.

"Mine too. I'm pretty sure my tongue was numb for a week." Ian recalled with a laugh as he walked to the counter to take the food. In truth, the worst day of his life had been exactly eight days ago.

"Don't drop it bro." Anthony called out to him as they walked to the car. Ian faked dropping the bag of Thai food, and Anthony jumped about a mile into the air. "Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!" Ian laughed.

"Sorry." He said cheerfully, not sorry at all.

"You are not, not at all! You bastard!" Anthony started to fake cry. Ian went to pat his head, and Anthony swatted him playfully away.

Ian knew that, if he could feel after death, if he could see what was happening in their lives, this would be what he would miss the most. Just joking with him, driving with him, filming things like this. Ian is Bored and Lunchtime with Smosh were even greater to him than the skits they did every week, because he spent his time with Anthony, and time was so precious now. He had so little left. Again, Ian wished he valued his life more. It would be a guilt that tortured him until the day he died.

Back home, the pair opened up and examined the boxes of Thai food.

"Dude, that has to be yours, it smells so spicy, my eyes are watering." Ian pointed to Anthony's box. Anthony took it and sat in his usual place. Ian smiled as he went to the refrigerator.

"What do you want, diet coke?" He called over, opening the door.

"Yeah." Anthony took out his plastic fork as Ian walked back with a can of diet coke and a bottle of water. Anthony raised his eyebrow and Ian quickly stated "Just preparing myself for the inevitable spiciness."

"Dude, you didn't even get spicy." Anthony was piling rice onto his fork.

"I didn't get spicy last time, and it was still a nightmare. These menus lie, Anthony." He faked a serious look, turning to the menu lying on the table and scowling. Anthony laughed as Ian tried to act like having spicy wasn't as big of a deal as it was. His stomach would go out of control if he ate like that, and if he got sick he could either make an excuse and be taunted the rest of his short life, or tell Anthony the truth, and ruin everything.

They ate and laughed like things were normal, but Ian was having a silent panic attack. At last, the meal came to an end, and Ian had to rate it.

"I would give this spicy flaming hell..." Ian began.

"Pussy." Anthony laughed behind the camera. Ian stuck out his tongue and continued.

"Five out of fifteen...pies. See you next Thursday."

"Bye."

"...bitch." He switched off the camera. So far, his stomach felt fine, but he couldn't trust himself. He was nervous during the entire first hour of editing, sitting in near silence. Finally, Kalel called Anthony, and Ian sat, praying for a miracle.

"Hello? Yeah. No, on the left...are you sure?....okay, but...yeah, of course, I'll be over as soon as I can." Anthony turned to Ian, looking guilty, and Ian feigned mild concern.

"What's up?" Anthony sighed with annoyance.

"A pipe broke back home. Sorry, Ian, I have to go fix it. Are you gonna be okay with all this?" He motioned towards the editing. Ian nodded.

"Yeah, it's fine, go home before your house floods or something."

"Ha," Anthony laughed as he stood up. "I'll go home, there's a waterfall out the door..." Ian grabbed his jacket and walked him to the door.

"Kalel's in a boat..." Anthony gave a hard laugh. 

"Yeah," he said, opening the door. "She made an oar out of a table leg-"

"She's attempting to save her makeup!" Ian called out to Anthony as he walked away. Anthony howled with laughter. "Hurry, dude, don't let the eyeshadow drown!" Ian yelled his last joke before turning around and going inside.

The smile faded from his face as he sat down in front of the computer. Kalel was a nice girl, and Anthony loved her, so he didn't have a problem with her. Ian settled further into his seat, the old chair groaning in protest. He was grateful, in the end, that he didn't get sick in front of Anthony. Maybe he was getting better. Maybe the end won't be so bad.

He threw up five minutes later.

***

Sunday came after a fairly normal two days (normal for Ian now that he was sick, anyway), and Ian went where he hadn't gone in years. As he pulled up, tons of cars were leaving, filled with women in pastel clothing and big hats. He smirked a bit before pulling out a bag of clothes from his back seat. He was donating them to the church, not because he was religious, but because this was the only place he knew that would accept his junk. He realized on Saturday that he had a lot to give away, and he didn't want to leave behind too much stuff to sort out.

Stepping through giant wood doors, he gazed at the tall ceiling and stained glass windows. The place was empty, save for some old women helping a priest clean up. Ian approached with caution. "Father..." he trailed off, hoping this was the one you called father. He didn't know much about that sort of thing.

A kind black man in his late thirties turned and gave him a small smile. "Deacon." he corrected politely.

"Sorry. I'd like to donate some clothes to the church." Ian said quickly, offering up his bag of clothing. The deacon seemed delighted.

"Thank you, so much." He said, smiling and taking the bag. "May God bless you."

Ian nodded uncomfortably. "What other things does the church accept?"

"The church accepts anything you should like to donate, from clothes to furniture to jewelry." He said calmly, with an even tone. Ian, being an actor, noticed he was an excellent speaker.

"Okay. I might donate more, later. Thanks. Have a good day." Ian turned to leave, smiling politely at the old women who started to gather around his old clothes.

"May God bless you with a long and joyous life!" The deacon called to him as he walked away. Ian held back a dark laugh, and walked quickly away to his car as it turned to tears instead.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Back in the waiting room. Ian moved his hands nervously, shifting his legs and looking at the clock. Anthony had told him the plumber was coming over between one and four, so Ian wasn't worried about missing Mail time. He was worried about this session. He didn't want to spent every Monday miserable because of a therapist for the rest of his life, but he didn't know how much it could help him to stay. Last week, they'd only talked for a few minutes, only about Ian's mother. What would they discuss now?

"Ian Hecox." Ruby called with her nasal voice. Ian gave the red-lipstick-lover a polite smile as he walked into Kris' office. Kris looked up and smiled, sitting behind his desk and shuffling papers.

"Why hello, Ian, I feel as though it's been ages! Please, sit in one of my comfy chairs, I'll be with you in a moment." Ian did as the man insisted and sat down in the plush chair he was in the last week. He curled comfortably into it, not used to expensive furniture.

After a moment, Kris stood up, and moved to the chair beside him. "I feel you must know, Ian, that I usually keep my notes in my lap when I'm with a patient, but I feel in light of your. . . situation, I can just keep records after our appointments. Is that alright?"

"Yeah," said Ian, and out of curiosity asked "Why do you keep records?"

"As a doctor, it's necessary to have records of all of my patients. Other doctors may need to look at a psychological past incase of head trama or brain disease. Although you're suffering from stomach cancer, it's best to be safe." Ian flinched at the word cancer. It had been one he'd avoided all week.

"Something wrong, Ian? Not a fan of the term?" Kris actually looked concerned, but Ian still had a nagging feeling he was some sort of case study.

"No, it's just..." He trailed off, looking around the room. It was filled with deep, rich colors, Earth tones designed to make people feel comfortable. He gathered his strength and looked back. "I don't want to accidentally admit it. Like, I don't want to say, 'oh hey, Mom, I have cancer. Want something to drink?' It would destroy her."

"So," Kris studied, "you haven't told your mother? Who have you told?"

Ian shook his head. "No one, no one yet. I can't." he didn't want to keep talking about it, but Kris gave him a pressing look.

"You can't?"

"I'm not-" Ian swallowed, trying to calm his nerves. His hands were shaking and his palms were sweating. "I'm not strong enough. To tell them, to see them hurt so much. To get months of pity and getting treated so differently. I don't want them stopping their lives and having six months of pain and-and anguish while they wait for me to-" tears blurred his vision, and he turned away. He took deep breaths, trying not to let them spill over.

"While they wait for you to..." Kris said gently.

"Die." Ian said it softly, then sobbed, lowering his head and pressing a hand to his forehead. Kris handed him a tissue from the box on the table next to them.

"I'm sorry Ian, it seems like a cruel thing to do, but I'm here to get you to accept your death. Not to make it seem like it's not a big deal, it's a huge deal. . . so young. . . but to keep you sane during your last few months, keep you comfortable. Along with your proper diet, medication and exercise, having a therapist, having this stability every week, is a great way to keep you from going mad. You're hurt and you're under a lot of pressure. You need me right now." Ian sobbed, accepted the tissue, and tried to control himself.

"We don't need to talk about anything too serious right now. Let's talk about your mother, Ian. When you're ready." 

There were several minutes of silence as Ian calmed himself down. Finally, he began.

"My mom's favorite color is blue." He knew he sounded stupid, but kept going. "So every year I get her a blue birthday present. Blue's my favorite color, too, so every year she gets me something blue. She's in my video's almost every week, and I'm going to film with her tomorrow. I haven't seen her since I found out. I-I can't tell her. I love her so much."

"It's okay, Ian. Your mom must be so proud of you." Kris was warm, reaching out and patting Ian's arm.

"Yeah, she is. She always says, 'I can't believe all you've done. My little blue-eyes is bigger than Shirley Temple!'" He chuckled at his own bad impression. Ian never saw anything wrong with laughing at your own jokes, he was one of those people who believed in loving yourself and everything weird, crazy, or funny about you.

Kris smiled. "So you see her tomorrow, then?" Ian sighed, and nodded. "Well, my boy, I won't lie and tell you that it's okay, that everything's peachy keen. It's a son leaving his mother, and it's painful, and it's unfair. But we can't stop it. So heed this advice; love your mother, love her as you did before, and when you're gone, she'll have that love to keep her warm."

Ian nodded, and they spent their remaining hour talking about his mother.

***

Mail time with Smosh was similar to last week's. Ian pretending things were fine, Anthony oblivious, while he sat and pondered therapy. Kris was right, he did need it. If he wasn't with the man an hour a week, he couldn't imagine how out of control his feelings might get. The thought of losing control and doing something insane, like telling everyone, or leaving early, terrified him.

Not that he would kill himself. No, not now. He'd been depressed and thought of it before, in high school, during college, when he was feeling empty a year ago. But now, never. With such little time left, he wanted every second. Which was why he needed Kris.

He also thought a lot about his mom. He thought of her living without him. He thought of her standing at his grave, dressed in black and holding blue flowers. He knew seeing her tomorrow would be Hell, but Kris had asked him to be strong, and love his mother just as usual, so that's what he planned on doing. He felt better today, and had only thrown up in the morning and after therapy, so he had high hopes for the next day. He finished filming with Anthony as usual, feeling uncomfortable with faking his death yet again, but it went off without a hitch. The pair spent the next few hours editing, until Anthony eventually went home, and Ian dragged himself to bed, exhausted.

The next day, Ian woke up with an idea. He ate an apple, threw up, took a shower, and made sure he was cleaned up before the crew got there. He didn't want some sort of evidence ratting him out. Ant came first, around ten, and the crew began to file in about a half hour later. They did some filming, and Ian's mom arrived at almost noon.

Ian had probably never been that nervous in his entire life. All he wanted was for his mom not to find out. He couldn't even consider what he would do if she did. She walked through the door, smiling and greeting the crew, and put her purse on the table. As she rummaged through it, Ian walked up nervously behind her.

"Oh, hi sweetie." She turned and said with a smile.

"Hey mom," Ian said, pulling her into his usual customary hug. "ready to film?" And just like that, he was fine. As they filmed, everything was as usual, life was ordinary. Ian didn't tell his mom, and she didn't get suspicious. No one did. All Ian could feel, besides a cramp in his stomach, was relief. His mother didn't need to know yet.

After a long day of filming, just as his mom was leaving, Ian recalled his idea from that morning. He pulled her aside and mentioned it casually. 

"Oh hey, do you remember my friend Kevin?"

His mom thought a moment, then shook her head. Ian smiled gently. It seemed everything he did off camera with his mother was gentle.

"He works at the YMCA downtown, and he needed another youth counselor, since the last one moved away. I'm volunteering there an hour every Monday." Ian's mom lit up, looking proud.

"Oh, honey, that's lovely! You'll be helping a lot of kids in need, I'm so happy for you!" She hugged him and stood up to kiss his head. Ian faked annoyance, but he really just wanted to hold her, apologize for lying, and most of all, apologize for leaving her so early. But he knew he couldn't, and only gave her customary goodbyes, sending her home smiling.

"Hey." Anthony came up to him, holding a fake arm and some face paint. "Did I hear right? Youth counselor?"

"Yeah, it won't get in the way of Ian is Bored, it's only an hour." Ian was truthful with this, just as he was truthful that his friend Kevin worked at the Y. But he didn't need a counselor, it was just convenient because neither his mom or Anthony knew him.

"Good for you, man." Anthony said seriously. "I'm gonna head home. Be ready to fall into the dog shit tomorrow." He grabbed his coat from the couch and moved towards the door.

"It's fake, you ass." Ian rolled his eyes.

"No, it came from ass." Anthony winked and walked out. "See ya."

Ian smiled, then, crippled by exhaustion and nausea, went to the bathroom. He threw up and slept on the floor, but it was the first day since he was diagnosed that he didn't cry. While the pain was still high, he had relief in the knowledge that he'd survived the first day with his mother without telling her, and expected to be able to keep it from her a while longer. Temporarily, he was satisfied.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the gay sets in

Ian had read enough Youtube comments to know he got fat jokes. All the time, "lol ur fat" was one of the most common things people said to him. Sure, he had fans who complimented his eyes and humor, but fat jokes were all the rage when directed at him. He didn't blame the commenters though, it hurt a lot less as years went on. He always ordered more than Anthony during Lunchtime with Smosh, and he was a little heftier than his friend.

The reason he didn't blame the commenters, though, was because he knew he wasn't fat. And sure, once or twice he's mocked someone for their weight, but at his core, he had a belief that it was okay to be fat, thin, whatever. He was of average weight, with the help of some exercise. He was on track all four years of high school, not the best, but still good. Afterwards,he continued running daily, and lifted weights at home.

But he knew the cancer would change that. He anticipated weight loss, he had already shed several pounds before his diagnosis. And now he was actually eating healthy, just to stop the stomach pain, and he'd have to change his exercise routine to help him stay stress free. Yoga, he found, was calming, when he did the stop-and-breathe parts, not the stretch-in-ways-not-humanly-possible parts. He had substituted half his time lifting weights for time on the yoga mat, and while he had not seen any positive difference, he was hopeful his doctor's yoga recommendation would ease some pain.

The diet change was one thing, but his doctor's other recommendation, the most important one of drinking more water, was the one that kept him up at night. Peeing, that is. Every two seconds Ian was rushing to a urinal, and it drove him crazy, but after googling the health benefits of choking down so much water, he decided it was worth it.

Diets and yoga were what Ian was thinking about on his way to therapy that Monday, but Kris had something else he wanted to discuss.

"My boy!" Kris boomed as Ian stepped into his office. The elder man was once again at his desk, flipping through a stack of paperwork. "Take a seat, son, I'll be over in two seconds!"

Ian, filled with warmth at hearing Kris' usual fatherly speaking, sat in one of the plush chairs, taking a moment to really examine the room. Next to him, large, dark curtains covered windows that most likely had an unpleasant view of the main road. A coffee table holding a globe and a box of tissues sat next to the chairs. The room was filled with large plants and paintings on dark walls, filing cabinets looking out of place near Doctor Rosenthal's large mahogany desk where he currently sat. Rich and comfortable, the place was impossibly soothing to Ian.

"How are you, Ian? Feeling well?" Kris stood from his desk and sat next to his young patient.

"As well as I can be, for uh, for my condition." Kris smiled and nodded.

"Now before we go any further, Ian, I must admit to going home and googling you the other day. I ended up watching a few videos, they were quite humorous. How long have you been doing this?"

Ian was flattered, and smiled proudly as he answered. "Well, Ant and I have been doing Smosh since 2005, but we made some videos before then, and I've always liked making people laugh." Kris nodded, looking directly at Ian with actual fascination. He always made sure his patients knew he was listening, as a source of comfort to them.

"And when did you really start doing that? Trying to make people laugh, I mean." Ian thought for a moment.

"I guess, back when I was trying to cheer up my mom. I'd do stupid crap -- uh-- things, hoping to make her smile. It worked, though." Ian was careful to watch his language, having an odd respect for his doctor. Kris nodded, and glanced at the curtains before continuing.

"And that boy you work with, Anthony, tell me about the two of you." Ian physically brightened. He held in a smile as he told a story that brought him a secret nostalgia every time.

"In sixth grade, we were paired up to do a project together. It was on a garbage dump, so we drew gas masks and flies all over it. We just became best friends, and we've been close since then." Ian tried not to gush, but he found himself lucky to have such a great friend, when he knew not many people did.

"But you're not telling him, because you don't want to hurt him." The smile on Ian's face faded. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, Ian, it's your decision. Tell me more about you two."

Ian nodded, and proceeded to talk about Anthony, slower this time. "We see each other filming and editing pretty much every day. We used to live together, but he moved in with his girlfriend awhile back." He paused, searching for more to say.

"So you said you were close with Anthony since sixth grade. So all through high school, I assume?" Kris cut in, and Ian answered with a nod. "I, um, I hope it's nothing you take to offense, m'boy, but I couldn't help but wonder. And no, it's not because of rumors, just therapeutically, I'd like to ask- how far did your feelings for Anthony reach?"

Ian stared at him in confusion. "I'm sorry sir -- Kris -- what do mean?" Kris looked slightly nervous.

"What I mean, Ian, is, have you ever had feelings for Anthony? Feelings beyond those considered friendly?" Ian could no longer look the man in the eyes, fearing what harsh judgement might come to him. He knew the man only as a warm friend, and he didn't want something he couldn't control to take that away from him. He glanced around the room.

"Sir, I-" Ian's eyes quickly flashed back to the man, planning to tell him he didn't want to talk about it, but he saw in that brief moment what he'd seen since his first session those few weeks ago- a glowing warmth, leaking from an old wise man. He decided to tell the truth. "Kris, it's just that, I've never told anyone before." His eyes rested on his hands, twisting nervously on his lap.

"You may tell me anything, Ian, I'm a therapist, a doctor. I keep my patient's confessions safe." Kris was nodding slowly, a twinkle in his blue eyes. Again, Ian was reminded of Santa Claus.

"There was this feeling," he began, admitting something he could never say aloud. ". . . that was always there, since I met him. Some sort of comfort, like, a completion. I felt complete. But on a small scale, you know, because I was young, I am young, I had more things that needed to be done. But friendship wise, I thought I was good.

"Then in eighth grade, we went to the end of the year dance, just as friends, like a lot of people, but I saw a lot more people with their dates. Guys and girls. And yeah, girls are nice, they're pretty, but...I don't know. I couldn't see anyone but Anthony making me feel the way those couples felt. And I got a bit of a crush. It was full blast half way through freshman year, but, I never said anything. I wasn't even sure I was gay." Ian sighed. It was one of the hardest times in his life to think about.

"We were still friends, we hung out all the time, but we talked about girls. And I just thought, 'no, someone like him, he's straight, he wouldn't go for someone like me, anyway, I'm just the good friend.' And behind our backs, everyone joked about us, thinking we were gay, and Anthony found out about it once, and he was _embarrassed._ Extremely, really embarrassed." Ian emphasized his best friend's humiliation to the therapist, whom he was looking at directly in an effort to keep strong. He felt himself failing though, he was shaking and there were tears in his eyes.

"Right then, I realized, I'd rather Ant have a girl he loves and a happy life, instead of me actually telling him I liked him. He wouldn't be happy with me. He wouldn't stand the taunting. He can barely stand it now, I mean, since he's so obviously straight and has a girlfriend he minds less, but he still doesn't like it. I couldn't ruin his life like that, I just couldn't. I love him too much."

The room was silent for a moment as tears started falling down Ian's face. His cheeks blushed with an odd humiliation from telling such a deep secret. Kris was watching him intently, hand on his chin.

"Were you just going to live life this way, Ian? In love with your best friend, letting him slip away like that?" Ian stared at him, thinking for a moment.

"I have Mel now, she's great too. I made the decision to move on, find someone else to love, and I did. I do love her. But if Anthony came out today, told me he didn't care about rumors or laughter, that he wanted to be with me, I would break up with her. But he won't, ya know, so I just assumed that Mel and I would be together forever. Until, this, I mean." Kris nodded and reached out, resting a hand on Ian's forearm. They sat like that for a moment, silence settling in the air like dust.

***

"What? More mail? Guys, stop sending this stuff!"

"Except the money."

"And the video games."

"Yeah, keep sending those."

The boys were back opening mail, but Ian was distracted by therapy once again. He had told someone his biggest secret. He had admitted he had gay feelings for Anthony. But he knew it wouldn't change anything, he knew it couldn't. He had spent years building up that secret, and he wasn't ruining it so close to the end.

"Oh, dude," Anthony began, pointing the camera at Ian. "How did the counseling go?" Ian had rehearsed his lie in the car on the way home.

"It was good. Kevin gave me a tour, then I talked to this one kid. All of the teens there are pretty fucked up." Anthony nodded respectfully, and they continued filming, then edited as Ian texted Melanie. She had mentioned she wanted to visit California again, and Ian acted casual about it, instead of revealing his terror of her coming over and discovering his secret illness.

For the rest of the week, Ian thought about his time with Anthony, the good and the bad. On set, he could even talk about what he was thinking of. "Remember that time...?" He'd frequently ask, and he and his friend spent the next two days in a cloud of nostalgia. But while Anthony spent it in joy, Ian was trapped, and his cloud was only a dark reminder of the pain to come.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the mel sets in

Ian and Anthony were shoveling down some American-Mexican food. Ian got the mostly lettuce tacos in hopes of it not upsetting his stomach too much, but he could feel the plan failing miserably. He also noticed Anthony was acting less wild as usual; he spoke slower and smiled less. When the meal was about three-quarters through, Ian looked at Anthony intently, while Anthony pointed the camera quietly at him.

"Something wrong, Ant? You don't look so good." Anthony looked at his lap, sighed, and turned off the camera.

Ian's heart raced. _He knows_ , he thought, his palms beginning to sweat. _He knows I have cancer and I didn't tell him. Oh God, no._

"Mel texted me today." Anthony said softly, looking directly into Ian's eyes, his own showing true concern. "She asked me if it was true you're youth counseling now, and she asked me a bunch of questions about it." Ian stared at him for a moment.

"I don't . . ." He trailed off in confusion.

"I don't know if she's worried, or suspicious, but the bottom line is she doesn't believe something you told her, she had to come to me to confirm it. She doesn't trust you."

Ian sighed and looked out the window behind Ant. Melanie had been asking him questions about it all week, and was persistently asking how he was feeling and if anything was wrong. She was getting suspicious of every move he made. He knew it was becoming a problem, but to Anthony he shrugged it off.

"No, man, she's just been anxious lately. Kind of clingy. She'll be fine, I'm texting her right now." More like she was texting him once every few minutes, and he was replying dully to half of them. Anthony didn't look convinced, and gave Ian a weary look.

"Okay, whatever, but she's still coming down this week, right?" Ian nodded numbly. The thought of Mel staying with him for a few days was terrifying. He knew she'd find out for sure. "Good, then. Today's the ninth, so hopefully she can get over here and settled down before Valentine's Day."

Ian nodded, and after a moment, suggested they turn the camera back on. "Let's just try to look normal, okay?" He suggested as Anthony flipped it on. They spent the rest of the show pretending things were normal, when worry really clouded them both.

After the episode ended and Anthony decided to go home, Ian texted Mel to see if she got her tickets. "Yep, bought and paid for :))" was her quick response. Ian sighed, settling into the chair he had not risen from. Now he couldn't tell her not to come. He rubbed his eyes, trying to push back a headache. He loved Melanie, he really did, but now he had some thinking to do before he picked her up from the airport.

"see u monday, gonna be there 5 days :)" was the next text Ian received from her. Monday, February 13th. Was he really going to break up with his girlfriend the day before Valentine's?

***

Monday came too quickly for Ian. He was up early, sick and panicky, and spent much of the morning pacing before leaving at ten thirty, driving to the airport. It was a beautiful day, sunny with a small breeze and only the slightest chill, and it helped Ian gather strength. At 11:30, he parked outside the waiting section of the airport, and soon saw Mel approaching.

He felt as though his chest was being crushed by a giant hand. She looked casually beautiful as always, hair flowing, as she carried her rolling suitcase to the trunk of Ian's car. He opened it for her, then opened the passenger door so she could climb in and kiss his cheek.

"How was the flight?" He asked with a small smile as she buckled up, not looking directly at her.

"Exhausting, as usual. At least there was no crying baby this time." Mel smiled, perky despite dark circles beneath her eyes.

"Ah, yeah, you had such a migraine last time I picked you up." Ian recalled, thinking of her last visit several months earlier. Melanie chuckled.

"Yeah, oh my God, I was grumpy that day."

"'Grumpy?' I was scared for my life, it was like talking to a tigress." Ian commented, and they both laughed lightly.

"Traffic's not that bad." Mel noted, looking out to the highway ahead of them that held only about a dozen cars.

Ian agreed. "Once, like last year, Ant and I were taking this highway, we were literally the only ones on it, it was like the apocalypse." Melanie smiled, and they rested in a few minutes of comfortable silence, before having a one-sided conversation about the Smosh site, Mel doing most of the talking.

The hotel was close to the airport, which Ian was extremely thankful for as he drove into the parking lot a few minutes later. He couldn't hold a proper conversation with her in fear of letting his secret slip out. Mel gave him a confused look as they drove in.

"What're we doing here?" Ian sighed, feeling her stare as she waited patiently for an answer. He didn't look at her, instead staring at his fingers nervously tapping the steering wheel.

"We need to talk, Mel." Ian said softly. She stared at him silently. "I just . . . I-" He faltered and looked out the window. There was a small garden next to the parking lot, with a lonely bench being covered by flowering vines.

"Ian?" He could hear the worry, the actual fear in her voice.

"You're a great girl, you're amazing, but I don't love you." He lied. "I think you deserve someone who does. I hope we can stay friends." He sat silent, looking again at his now shaking fingers. Her mood beside him was unreadable, before he turned and looked into her eyes. A mixture of sadness and anger resided there, and he looked away quickly, burned. He dug an electronic card from his pocket.

"The room's under my name, I payed for all five days. Mel . . ." He looked at her, hand holding the card outstretched, as she stared at him.

"Is this why you've been texting less? Because you don't love me anymore?" Ian looked down. "What about Anthony?"

He looked back up, surprised. "What about him?"

"Is he still dating Kalel?" She gave him a funny look, that didn't distract him from the tears in her eyes.

"Yeah, why wouldn't he be?" She just shook her head.

"I thought . . . I just thought we'd be together forever, Ian." she shook her head again, looking at him with fire in her eyes. "Don't text me. Don't fucking talk to me again. Waste of my time." She unbuckled, snatched the key from his hand, and left the car, just as the tears began escaping her eyes. Ian was completely still and silent as he opened the trunk for her, which she closed with a slam, and drove away. 

After a minute or two, tears started to fill his own eyes, and he eventually pulled over, nauseous and sobbing. He exited the car on the side of the highway, and rushed to the grassy area just beyond, dropping to his knees and vomiting. He stayed there for several moments, shaking and heaving, before stumbling weakly back to his car. He sat alone, body racked with uncontrollable sobs.

***

"You look down, boy." Ian had been sitting in one of Kris' comfortable plush chairs, the old therapist next to him. They were only a few seconds into the appointment, and the silence was overwhelming. Ian had spent the previous hours at home in tears, trying to ring himself dry in preparation for the therapy appointment. Now he sat, tearless, but with a scratchy throat and aching head.

"I am, sir." Was his mumbled response. Kris nodded expectantly, and Ian knew he wanted a story. He sighed, and began. "I broke up with my girlfriend this morning."

"Oh." It was one of understanding, not of confusion or sympathy. Just factual. "And why did you do that?"

Ian balled his fists, keeping strength. "Because I love her. Because she deserves someone living. Because she was so close to finding out . . ."

"Because she loves you, too." Kris answered.

"Loved." Ian blinked, reluctant to give way to tears once more. "She hates me now."

"Maybe," the therapist mused, "but you feel it's for the best. Not just for yourself, for her. For Anthony. For-"

"My mom." Ian finished. "I would rather have the two of us separated than all of them becoming miserable five months early."

"Five?" Kris looked ready to say more, then struggled with his wording. He asked the next bit cautiously. "How long, exactly-"

"Six months from January 18th puts me mid-June." Ian responded quickly, not wanting to think of it, and for a moment the room was silent.

"Well, then, tell me about this girl, I think you've mentioned her as Mel." Kris started again, settling, relaxed, into his chair.

"Short for Melanie." Ian smiled. "She lives in New Jersey, gets a lot of heat from it. She also lives here, which is how we met a few years back. We-we were, well, everyone said we were perfect. I think we were, but . . ."

"We can't change this situation, only bend it. And you've chosen that bend." Kris picked up for Ian when it was clear he had no strength to finish. Ian nodded.

"It's going to work out for her. I know it will." And he did, he was absolutely certain. In the end, things would turn out alright for the love of his life, even if they didn't for him.

***

"Here, look, it's a tattoo."

"Oh, man, I call Pikachu."

"Squirtle!"

"Run and get some water." Ian called to Anthony as he was already rushing to the sink. They were opening mail once again, and Ian was getting some cramps, not in the mood to move. He heard Anthony laughing as he handed him a wet towel for his Pikachu tattoo, but he could barely feel joy over it. While Anthony seemed happy enough, Ian was just relieved his friend didn't see how much he was hurting. Not just over stomach pains, but over Mel. 

Maybe Mel was his true love or maybe she wasn't. Ian, even at this point in his life, wasn't even sure he was straight. He had loved Anthony, and backed up to keep him happy. Then he found Melanie, and he became convinced that she was good enough so he could be happy, too. Good enough. But not Anthony.

Anthony was now revealing his tattoo, a squirtle on his arm. Ian tried to smile as he revealed his own, a Pikachu on his hand.

"Mine's better, but...wait..." Anthony was trying to look suddenly terrified, but Ian knew it was just the end of the episode. "Oh my God, I think...I THINK IT'S POISONED!"

Anthony made a series of crooked movements and sputters, pretend-choking on his breath. He fell over, camera still in hand. After a moment, Ian slowly crawled over, ignoring his sudden dizziness, and picked up the camera.

"Well, I guess whoever sent these just hates Anthony." He looked down at Anthony's still form and stuck out his tongue. "I'm feeling fine. Okay, leave any more suggestions for Ian is Bored down below, see you next Monday."

Anthony sat up as Ian flipped off the camera. He stood up easily, but had to give Ian a helping hand. Ian tried to act natural, but embarrassment formed a small blush on his cheeks. He was so weak that day, he planned on sleeping for hours. As they cleaned up, they both noticed how tense the silence was. Finally, Anthony broke it.

"Hey, um . . ." He looked like he suddenly regretted this, and Ian didn't push him to finish the sentence. He didn't want Anthony to ask him why he was so tired, or why he had lost weight, or why was he so pale, or anything else that would lead to Ian's cancer. But Anthony shook his head and finished awkwardly. "Do you know why Mel's been firing off those tweets today? She didn't answer my text, but she keeps flipping between depressed and pissed. I just . . ." He trailed off and looked at Ian, curious and confused. Ian looked away.

With a nervous gulp, he admitted, "Oh, um . . . we broke up this morning." and shoveled up torn envelopes and junk, not wanting to look his friend in the eyes. He wasn't even sure how Anthony would respond.

"What?" Anthony was in shock, but fell silent as he saw the look on his friend's face. Anger, sadness, fear, humiliation. "Oh. Can I ask why?" Ian was still gathering up garbage, and didn't look at him.

"We -- I just wanted to be friends." Ian felt like he was being destroyed, like someone was tying him down and torturing him, and he was on the verge of vomiting.

Anthony nodded, then curiosity got the best of him. "Was there someone el-"

"I don't love her. That's all. Nothing else too it." Ian lied, mood darkening. He wasn't sure he could keep pretending to be normal, though, because his head was spinning, and he couldn't see the papers in front of him.

"Oh." He could hear Anthony was slightly hurt, but knew he didn't have to apologize. Not because he was a bad friend, because Anthony knew he was in pain, and would undoubtedly be alright. "Do you need me to stay with you, do some editing?" Ian closed his eyes and shook his head in response, and Anthony confused his friend's intense nausea for almost tears. He patted Ian gently on the back before leaving.

Ian spent the rest of the night sick, but managed to pull himself together while filming Tuesday and Wednesday. The nausea, this week, was close to unbearable, and he would've collapsed without Anthony. But his friend knew he was hurt over the break up, and watched him like a hawk while filming. He was more excited those two days, trying to keep the crew's spirit's up, but calm and gentle around Ian. He always asked him if he needed anything, always put his hand on Ian's back or shoulder. Ian knew the attention wouldn't last, and for the first time felt regret at not telling Anthony he had cancer. He knew his best friend would have spent every day of their short time together doing as he did then, with pats on the back and offers of assistance, but he could never tell- just as he could never tell of his odd love for him, Ian couldn't tell him he had five months left to live.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so looooong

"Heeeeeello, everybody, come join us on our exciting journey, in our quest for-"

"Pizza?"

"Wha- yeah, pizza."

"This will be the most exciting of all journeys."

"Of all journeys!" Anthony boomed dramatically. Ian laughed as he picked up the phone to order a supreme pizza. He was trying to act better that day, despite being more nauseous than ever and upset over breaking up with Mel. He had managed to look legitimately cheerful, instead of the glum frowns that he had worn the past two days of filming. But the crew all knew of his breakup, so they didn't become suspicious.

Ian ended up swallowing a mouthful of vomit in the car, but Anthony was focused on driving and didn't notice. Ian was also thankful that he didn't have to drive today, because he was dizzy, and went through moments of seeing double. He had already scheduled an appointment with Doctor Marrow for tomorrow morning. 

"Pizza, pizza, pizzapizzapizza!" Anthony chanted as he opened the car door. "Hey, barbershop pole!"

"Fuck you, barbershop pole." Ian commented in a serious tone as he walked behind Anthony into the house. He no longer mentioned his future wife, the words hurting far too much knowing that this mere joke was now an impossibility. He continued in behind Anthony, hiding a small stumble. He was silently thankful he would be seeing Marrow about this.

"Ugh, look at that pizza. Look at that cheese- wait, didn't we get a supreme?"

". . . This ruins the whole meal."

"They fucked up our order! Again!"

"Again?"

"Yeah, remember that other time, we went to that one burger place, and I ordered chicken nuggets, and they gave me a burger?"

"Oh yeah, you were so pissed that day." Ian reminded himself to throw in an old clip of that.

"Yeah, and remember the next week when we drove to the other one, like twenty minutes away?" Ian reminded himself to put in another old clip.

"Our fries got cold. That's really all I can think of."

"But I got my nuggets. That's the only important thing here." 

Ian rolled his eyes over-dramatically, deciding to skip the dramatic sigh to avoid accidentally throwing up. He ended up eating only one slice of pizza, but he knew Anthony would just chalk it up to being upset over Mel. He would do the same later on when Ian couldn't focus on editing -- in truth, Ian was so dizzy, he couldn't even see the screen.

***

"Hello, Mr. Hecox." Doctor Marrow was standing behind his desk when Ian walked into the unpleasant office. While Kris went out of his way to have a warm and comfortable office, this room was barren of warmth, comfort, or any joy at all. "What do we need to talk about?" He asked as he shook Ian's hand and sat.

Ian ignored the way the doctor couldn't quite look at him. He was one of three people who knew, the other two being Kris and his insurance advisor, who he hadn't seen since the previous month anyway, so he could deal with solely this man's pity.

"I just wanted to know if there was something I could do about, about the nausea." He shivered from the chill of the cold, metallic chair.

"Ah, yes, I thought you would feel some. Can you tell me how, uh, bad your condition is?"

Ian took a deep breath. "I feel nauseous and dizzy, just all the time. And I can never see straight, because I always feel like I've just spun around on an office chair. And I vomit all the time. I just wanted to know if it's my diet, or if I need some medication, or, I don't know."

The doctor nodded. "Okay, well, how is your diet? Eating generally healthy?"

"Generally. Except..." Ian twisted his fingers. "Once a week, I eat fast food with my best friend. Is that bad?"

"Fast food once a week is bad for everyone. But for your stomach, you should only be feeling intense pain around that time. Are you only nauseous after eating the fast food?" The doctor frowned as Ian shook his head. "Well, then I'm going to give you a prescription for Zofran, it's a nausea depressant. It's a dissolvable tablet, so don't chew it, let it melt in your mouth, then drink some water. It should make the nausea subside. Stop taking it if something feels off, call or visit if there's a problem."

He wrote out the prescription, and Ian had it filled that afternoon. He noticed a difference immediately- he felt less nauseous, but extremly light-headed, which he ignored. For a few days, it seemed Ian's condition would be permanently improved; his time in the bathroom was cut in half, he wasn't dizzy and falling everywhere, he could actually eat some fruit or even oatmeal, and it became a lot easier to act normal in front of Anthony.

Until Sunday night came.

***

The colors were bold and bright, like a bad batman movie, but the whole place was dark, all shapes blurred and distorted like shadows, ghosts, monsters in the night, with the same fearsome edge. All manner of noises sounded in this dungeon, hisses and rattles and moans and shrieks, all of which could be heard from the cold stone platform where he lay. It was cold and rough against his skin, and it did not take long for him to discover he was nude. In an image reminding him of Beetle Juice, the stone held him down against it, by the wrists and ankles.

Ian Hecox screamed at the top of his lungs, begging for rescue.

No one came to help him.

But he did sense an arrival.

Two figures stared at him, deep brown eyes engulfing him. Their bodies were tall and twisted, bent and skewed like knotted old trees, but he still recognized their evil faces: Mel and Anthony. They both stood in little clothing, black and wisping around them like smoke. Ian, in his terror, screamed for them.

"Help me! Help me!"

They laughed, Anthony deep and booming, Mel high and nasal. And they moved towards him, taking steps as if on uneven stones, only making their bodies quake like jumping spiders. Ian, still tied, screamed again.

"Help me! Help me!" 

His voice sounded farther away, like listening to him shout from a ditch, a deep hole in the ground, lacking sunlight, air, joy. Life.

Mel stood on his left, near his shoulders, and Anthony at his feet, both staring down at him. Ian had never been more embarrassed to be nude.

She bent down and grabbed his shoulder, cold claws pressed to bare flesh. She bends further, and tangled hair obscured his view. Suddenly he feels cold on his neck, her breath, then her icy bite. And another. She bit down on him, nipping at flesh, and he guessed she formed bruises. In pain, he had nearly forgotten Anthony, but that would soon be amended.

Anthony leaned forward, and wrapped his rope like fingers around Ian's thighs. Unlike Mel, he felt like fire. Ian felt the pain in the burn and tears formed in his eyes as Anthony's hot breath approached his thigh. He bit the inner thigh, hard as Mel was biting on his neck, but heated.

Mel moved from his neck to his face, biting and numbing his lips. His teeth chattered as her hair fell around his face like a curtain, and he shut his eyes to avoid looking into those of the beast. He felt her shift, then place one boney hand upon each his shoulders. She slowly climbed onto him, a cold ooze sliding on his body. She sat on his stomach and he looked up to see her grimace at him, teeth jagged and yellow.

Anthony, done biting his thighs, slid his hands up, and Ian felt them tug roughly at smooth, pale skin. He felt the breath, hotter than Hell, moving terrifyingly closer to his cock. The curtain of hair still shielded his view, so all he could see was the face and exposed body of the beast on top of him. Without warning, he felt a mouth force down upon him, and fought hard as he could against the stone binding him.

It was hot and powerful, going up and down quickly, greedily, but Ian didn't want it, and he screamed and begged for it to stop. It continued, the beast continued to suck, but Ian didn't want it. This was a creature. This was not his Anthony. The rattles and screams of far away joined together, as if in chant, as if egging on the beasts, the rapists. 

Another voice was screaming now, a new but familiar one. "Cancer!" It screamed. "Why didn't you tell me? Ian!" Somewhere in the distance, it was Ian's mother, screaming in pain at her son's misfortunes, but the hair hid her, Ian could not see her, and he suffered too much pain to comfort her.

And Ian screamed, his body cold, but face and cock hot as the beast attacked him, and as the stone grinded his bare skin. And his body reacted. And the beast stopped. And for a moment, Ian swore he could feel Anthony's hands on his hips, not claws, not old dried branches or rough rope.

And then he woke up.

Ian lay still in his bed, body drenched in cold sweat, clothing soaked, sheets tangled around him. The only light came from the moon outside, and the alarm clock beside him reading 3:04. He stared at it, then slowly peered around the room in shock, almost waiting for the monsters to appear from the darkest corners. After a moment, he sat up, shaking, and ran to the bathroom, stumbling along the way, legs weak. He crawled to the toilet and threw up into it, sick chills flowing down his body as terror electrified him. He sat next to the toilet, heaving once in a while, until the sun rose, too afraid to enter his bedroom, too afraid to risk lying on a stone platform once again.

***

After several hours of shaking, crying, and being tortured by his body and mind, Ian took a shower, and went to Marrow, deeply disturbed. He did not tell Marrow the full details of his dream, he couldn't, but the look of pure horror on his young patient's face was enough for Marrow to tell Ian to flush the drug.

Ian did not discuss his dream in full until three o'clock, in Kris' office, and when he did, he did so shaking, and staring into Kris' old, care-worn face for small comfort. At the end of his description, Kris stared at him, profoundly disturbed, and silence reigned in the somehow colder office.

"Ian, I know you're not a fan of pity, but you are one of comfort. And may I say to you, now, that you have experienced nothing but a dream. A dream, that is hopefully over now." Ian nodded and bit his lip.

"But what can that mean. Why were they- why- why would they?" He gave the man an incredulous look. "Why does my head think of these things? I mean, that was, that was so awful! It was horrific! And I invented it!...How?"

Kris only studied the nervous man in front of him. "I hope you don't dwell on these things in the future, Ian, these terrifying things. Leave it be."

Ian gave a rattled sigh, looking down at his twitching fingers. "How can I look at him now?"

"Do not dwell on your nightmares, Ian, they are nothing but images, a film made by a pile of goop sitting in your head."

Ian chuckled. "Half Santa, half Dumbledore, aren't you." And to his surprise, Kris cracked one of the largest smiles he'd ever seen, and roared with laughter. It was a sight nearly removing the nightmare stuff from him, replacing half his bad thoughts with a light feeling, and some sort of pride that he made this elder, fatherly man laugh.

***

Ian was so nervous when he got home, he was on the verge of tears again. He had no idea how he would see Anthony in this state. He tried not to think of it, but the image of the beast was burned into his visage, a dark twisted fiend with big, soulless eyes. And now he had to see the human version to what had got him off last night.

He rubbed his eyes, shame filling him. Marrow, getting the gist of the dream, had very softly informed Ian how easy it can be to stimulate the human body, even if the human's mind doesn't want it. He handed him an essay on rape, but circled the part about the body reacting to it, how there was nothing to be ashamed of. He found it quite a relief, but the emotions inside him were changing every second.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door being unlocked and opened. And there was Anthony. Same smile, same rosy cheeks, same joyful eyes. And still his friend, still a human, not a beast or rapist. Ian filmed with him, talked with him, laughed with him, just as he usually did. His Anthony hadn't been ruined by the previous night's images.

Ian went to bed, still sick, still weak, head splitting and nausea returning, but he slept soundly, and then had a normal Tuesday (for him), and had a nice night of sleep after that. The beasts would never return in dreams, only in moments of fear, of sleeplessness, hiding in corners and floating in darkness, but only the cause of fear, not real pain as they'd been that first night. Ian would never escape them, but they would never catch him.

 


	10. Chapter 10

The crew had almost completely left now. Ian was tidying up as the men packed and exited. They had already finished filming, so Ian had time to take it easy, maybe jog or do some yoga. But Ian was nervous, so he started to clean.

He went first to the computer, opening desk drawers and seeing them filled with old papers. He sighed, and left the mess, only to return a minute later with his recycling box, which they would fill with paper and take down to the supermarket whenever it filled up. Or he would do that, now. Anthony no longer lived there, so he no longer contributed to the pile, but Ian did, and would soon be stuffing the box with old paper.

He had a crooked smile on his face as he emptied the desk. Old papers to ‘Adrian's bike,’ keep (Ian would be giving it to a friend after he passed), old, unfinished scripts, garbage. So many odd memories. He soon found himself slowing, reading old papers before laughing softly to himself.

_Here's the instructions that came with the Snorlax, he observed as he threw them into the bin. We almost broke one of the feet the first day._

Here's half the script of Charlie, the Drunk Guinea Pig, he smiled, and read through the ridiculous thing. He remembered already owning Charlie, and one day Anthony just decided he should have his own video, and the popularity of it and the resulting channel still blew his mind.

He found old maps, charts, floor plans of the house, unfinished scripts, bills and notes. However happy it made him, though, most of it was going in the bin. He no longer had need to hang onto those old memories, not on paper anyway, just as softness in his mind. When he was done, the paper box was half full, and the desk was nearly empty, with only some official documents he assumed people would need after he was gone remaining in the drawers. 

From here, he moved to the desk in his bedroom, where he found the papers were even older. He was throwing away a high school diploma and some old math homework when he thought of going to his mother's house and emptying out his old bedroom, but decided his mother might want to do it, and it could cause suspicion. But soon his amusing treasure hunt continued.

_And here's that note Anthony slipped me_ , he thought, reading the dirty joke on it.

_Here's that Valentine's Day card, from that girl Tiffany._ He didn't really care about the holiday, it was just commercial to him, but that was high school romance.

While pulling out papers, he found a sheet of loose leaf paper, old, folded and crinkled, but recognized it right away, and nearly cried out with joy. Straightening it as best as he could, he read his and his best friends' old handwriting. It was sloppy and quick, and he remembered sitting in the library with Anthony as they wrote down the names. Names of things they could call themselves. And in the middle of the paper, from Anthony's pen, is the word Smosh, which a young Ian had taken the liberty of circling with his pencil. He put the paper in his keep pile.

He also found the receipt to his first camera, an old game for a gameboy, and his yearbook. He threw the first away and moved the second to the side, taking a moment holding the book before throwing it away as well. Sometimes it was hard to let go, but when Ian knew he was letting go of life, he found it easy to let it go of possessions. The memories, though, those were what he clung to.

***

Saturday was spent with a ten hour editing marathon. Anthony spent the first hour happy, the next normal, the next grumbling, and the other seven either groaning in annoyance or silent. Ian spent much of them hiding cramps and fatigue, but for him it was a very serious time in his life. Not just this moment, but every time he edited. He liked knowing he could actually work hard at something, especially when it was this boring, and actually finish it, actually have something in front of him that was a result of hours of labour, something to be proud of.

Not that the ADHD helped, of course. That made him more proud of his work, in fact, because it meant that he worked twice as hard as people without it. He remembered being so distracted when he was a kid, and now he could actually sit at a desk and work, not even as a boring office job, just as a part of something he loved.

And those silent moments with Anthony were nice, too. It had always been just the two of them editing the videos, and while some of it was bonding, and other parts testing their relationship, most of it was just work. But with such little time left, he held every second precious and close to his heart. He found himself cherishing the smallest things, like the big monitor on the computer and Anthony's rosy cheeks. Everything was vivid, everything was important, because he was alive, and he had so much. If only he realized earlier.

***

He had a bottle of water with him today, he always kept it with him in the car, but he took it into therapy after feeling nauseous. He didn't want to get sick in Kris' office. He now sat in his large chair, with Kris looking serious in front of him.

"I assume, we'll be talking about something big today, huh." Ian rubbed his forehead and stretched, getting ready to undergo a session he assumed to be horrific.

"Yes, Ian, but as big as it is, we must all face it." Kris was somber.

"Death." Ian guessed.

"Yeah." Kris looked at the stressed young man, frowning at the situation, and continued. "What do you think happens?"

"When we die?" Ian shook his head, resting his hands on his thighs. "I always thought of it like sleeping, but I don't really know, it could be anything."

"Anything?" Kris mused.

"Yeah, like Heaven or Hell, reincarnation, maybe like a weird alternate universe or something." 

Kris nodded. "That's very wise, Ian. Most people assume what society or religion tells them about death is a fact, and think of it as the only possible correct answer."

"Well," he responded, "society and religion aren't the best at sending clear messages." Kris nodded in agreement, and for a moment the two were lost in thought.

"Are you scared?" was Kris' next question, as he lifted an eyebrow and examined the young man.

"A little." Ian answered truthfully. "Because it's -- it's the next big --" he paused, searching for the word. "It's the next big adventure. So I'm a little scared, like when I started Smosh or bought a house with Anthony. Because I don't know what's coming."

Kris nodded. "But say you were certain, that after death there existed a Heaven and a Hell, and the rules of it followed the Christian religion. Would you know what's coming, then?"

Ian thought about his answer. "I guess not. I mean, I think it'd be more likely that I'd go to Heaven, I'm a good guy, but I don't really know. I haven't followed the rules perfectly, and no one agrees over how strictly the Bible should be interpreted. But whichever way I go, I don't know what's gonna be there."

Kris nodded and leaned back, getting himself comfortable. Outside, rain whipped against building and roads, the wind blowing through the branches, and the two fell silent again to experience a rare stormy day in California.

"Do you believe in God, Ian?" Kris looked at him, free of judgement.

"I believe . . ." Ian struggled with putting it into words. "I believe in the big bang. I believe in the universe. But I believe there might be something else out there, some sort of force, I don't know. Something like that."

Kris cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. "That's good, Ian. Not good that you believe in one specific thing, I mean, you don't have to believe in anything, but it's good for you to understand enough about yourself to say so. Most people, they don't know who they are, who they truly are, until they're old and dying. And that's fine, too. I mean to say, just observing, that you're beyond your years."

"I guess cancer's aged me." Ian mused with a light smile. But he saw some sort of truth in it. Dying made him face his life and evaluate it, earlier than everyone who was healthy, who would live for years more. And because it wasn't quick and sudden, his death, he had time like an old man to look back. Cancer, in this smallest way, was changing him, but he remained the same person, and cancer could not change his foundation.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is this soooo long  
> Also it gets a little obvious that not only was this set in 2012, but also written then. When I mention popular youtubers, don't expect pewds or anything. Or the Smosh Game guys for that matter. But yeah enjoy!

Ian awoke early on Tuesday, as he usually did now, feeling queasy. He took his Demerol and then spent a long time in the bathroom, stomach pains taking a toll on his shaking body. In the shower, he washed up nervously, knowing today would be an important day to control his sickness. They were filming a skit with a song in it today, and he had to meet Anthony at the recording studio.

As he drove there, Ian had to turn off the heat, and sit in the cold February air as not to sweat. End of February air, actually. Today was the 28th, tomorrow would be the leap day, and then it would end, and Ian would never see the month again. He ended up doing some calming breathing exercises before grabbing his water and heading inside, extremely thankful for yoga.

Anthony met him in the recording room, looking exhausted. He smiled tiredly at his friend and gave him a pat on the back before setting up the mic, sleep-ridden hands clumsy. Ian helped move it up and adjust the volume, trying not to look so nervous. The crew members looked at him and nodded, turning on the mic, and he and Anthony began to record.

"Maybe you're bored when you get home from school."

"Maybe you wanna be super cool."

"And maybe those assholes will call you a tool."

"But that doesn't matter, you got this cool shit you can do."

"Ukulele!"

"Rock out!"

"With a ukulele!"

"Rock out!"

"Yeah, it's hard core rock when you got a ukelele."

"Mind blowing power from this sexy ukelele."

"You can get all the chicks on your dick-"

"Or your vagina!"

Anthony lost control and burst out laughing, with Ian holding back chuckles. The crew was also laughing, but giving them a thumbs up to show what they'd recorded so far had been good. The skit was about a rock band where the members played a ukelele, a banjo, a violin, and a flute, and they were somehow insanely popular.

"Okay, can we take it from the vagina scream?" the producer asked the pair. Anthony nodded and took a minute to compose himself, Ian smiling broadly at his friend the whole time. They reset and continued.

"Or your vagina!"

"So grab your ukelele and rock the fuck out."

"Rock!"

"And if you're still not convinced, let this blow your mind."

There was a pause, as the part where the song changed in rhythm arrived , and Ian held back laughter at the seriousness in Anthony's face as he began his rap.

"Yo, Ant's in the house and we gonna have a party. Yeah we gonna go hard and get ourselves some Arby's. Rock all night, all day, all year, just as long as my ukelele's here. Chicks, love it, guys, jealous, band, hopping, show, never stoppin'. Yeah we got that crazy beat that crazy heat it's a rave when we comin' on your radio, all because of this cool ukelele solo!"

The crew paused and applauded, and Anthony took a deep breath, cheeks red. Ian laughed and applauded his friend. He was pleased with the song as well, they had both been nervous writing it, but now it was coming together perfectly. They reset again and continued.

"Yeah!"

"That was fucking cool!"

"So get yourself a ukelele."

"Yeah, ukelele."

"Tune the strings of that sexy ukelele."

"And then rock out with your ukelele!"

"'Cause you'll be the coolest kid in school."

"Impress your teachers while you rule."

"Have a badass ukelele duel."

"Yeah, aren't ukelele's cool?"

"So cool!"

"Yeah, and if you ain't convinced by our hard core night."

"Let this guy give you a lesson of life."

They paused again as they waited for the music change, and Ant's second rap. It had taken them both awhile to write, but were actually quite proud.

"Yeah back for a second verse, mothafuckas! Thought you'd seen the last of me? Well you can suck it! 'Cause they call me A-cool when I step on the scene, radio rockin', rhymes obscene. But yeah we got this flow we got this rock, our swag undeniable and our ukelele's helpin'! On the floor with a sick ass ukelele, concert rockin', lights poppin', and we take that party out, p-party out, p-p-party out!"

"Hey!"

"Yeah, fuck you, so I'm auto-tuned, ukelele ain't. I mean, look at this thing, it's a little guitar, only more badass and more hardcore. And it will score you ladies and money, so fly. Boy if you rhyme up like this guy, you gonna score. D-do it ukelele style! Ukelele style!"

The crew paused them once again, and some applauded Anthony once more, his face still red, but looking much more awake and cheerful. They rewinded what they'd just done, and listened to the "p-party out" that would be edited and auto-tuned. Ian nodded in approval, and both took a break to drink some water, as the producer began some light editing.

"So all we have to do now is the ending, right?"

"Yeah." Ian nodded, thinking of the last of the singing. "And then we get to rock out to ukelele techno."

Anthony smiled. "Dude, I don't know how you thought of that, but seriously, it's the coolest sounding thing ever. I don't care if it's ukelele, it sounds so fucking cool."

Ian agreed, and they both started rocking out to music that wasn't there. The camera man took a shot of them fist pumping, and Ian made a note to himself to put that into the extras, maybe with some cheesy editing to make it look like a real party. After a few minutes of rocking out, they went back and finished the song.

"Yeah!"

"Woah!"

"Ukelele techno."

"T-techno!"

"And that's why we love our ukelele."

The crew raised their hands in celebration, and Ian and Anthony high-fived. Ian's stomach began to pain him, but he distracted himself by listening to the producer begin editing the last few lines. "Ukelele techno" and "T-techno!" would both be auto-tuned.

They all returned to Ian's house, in a procession of cars, to set up and start filming the music video. They started at about noon, dimming the lights and dressing in cool clothes. They went up to the camera, making motions, and Ian was reminded of the firetruck video.

"Jesus, this is work." Anthony said during a brief intermission to Ian, as a light bulb was broken, and the crew was searching for a replacement. Ian just sipped water and agreed. "And it's not helping that you stop to piss every two seconds." Ant joked, and Ian laughed, and considered peeing again before filming.

"Yeah, I think I'll go do that now." Ian laughed, putting his water on the table. He just didn't want to feel sick that day, and so far it was working out. He excused himself, and when he returned, it looked like the crew had found a replacement bulb. He stood again next to Anthony, shaking out his hands and preparing himself.

"What time is it now, four?" Anthony asked, and Ian looked at his phone and nodded. They would only film for another four hours, and Ian hoped he wouldn't fall ill. He hadn't had the crew staying with him so long since he found out he had cancer, and he was nervous, but he didn't show it.

The next few hours consisted of normal filming, almost looking like it could've been for an actual hit song, instead of a skit dedicated to ukeleles. Ian and Ant joked when they weren't filming, had some funny bloopers (Anthony tripped over his shoelace, and the two laughed so hard they cried), and finished the portion they needed by around quarter to nine, packing and leaving. Which was a good thing, because Ian threw up about twenty minutes later, and stayed up late again, locked in his bathroom.

Wednesday morning was cloudy, so the crew arrived early and started setting up as quickly as possible. They needed to shoot a few scenes outdoors, and they didn't want it to rain them out. Ian had little sleep and felt sick, but didn't have to do much filming today. Unfortunately, that meant he had to deal with the most extras they'd ever used, about three dozen. Many of them were assorted friends and family members of the crew, with some famous faces starting to arrive for cameos.

"Hey." Anthony interrupted Ian telling one of the girls where to go, before breaking into a dance that made all three of them laugh. "Check out my swag." As the rapper, Anthony was decked out in fake gold chains and tattoos, wearing baggy jeans and a black tee with a hoodie.

"You look good. Get in the car, we'll be starting soon. I'll get dressed in a minute." Anthony nodded and left, and Ian directed the girl to where she needed to be before going to his room and changing.

He was stressed, and that wasn't good, especially when they hadn't even started filming. He drank some water and took deep breaths as he changed into baggy jeans and a tee, paired with an old black winter jacket. He was thankful he hadn't cleaned out the closet where his winter coat had resided yet, but decided he had to, at least come spring.

Outside, they were taking shots of Anthony rolling up and stepping out of the car as the first Youtuber to cameo arrived. Shane Dawson drove up and greeted Ian and Anthony, talking to them as he held an Iphone.

"What's your name, how do you know me, and how jealous are you that I met Rebecca Black?" Shane asked Ian as soon as he saw him. Ian gave him a confused look, but answered, figuring he was vlogging.

"My name's Ian Hecox, I met you at VidCon a few years ago, then you acted in our gay Bigfoot video, and I'm extremely jealous you met Rebbeca Black." Shane laughed.

"I don't think enough people are jealous. I'm glad you are." He turned as Anthony walked up to them, and asked the same question.

"Yo, my name is A-cool, I met Shane Dawson at VidCon a few years back, and I'm really mothafuckin jealous you met Rebecca black." Anthony said to the camera in character. They laughed.

"So where am I going?" Shane asked Ian. Ian told him to go up to the living room and he left, yelling "S-Deezy in the house!" the entire way.

The hectic arrivals during filming continued as Jenna Marbles, Nigahiga, Tobuscus, iJustine and eventually Kalel showed up. Ian made jokes about how fun hosting VidCon was as they filmed the party scenes, but he was actually trying to distract himself from his stomach pains. They filmed everything outside quickly, luckily sans rain, and headed in to film the party. Ian assumed his neighbor was pissed, and it gave him enough joy to hold back the pain.

After the filming was done, the massive crowd somehow turned into an actual party. They turned up some music and danced, laughing, all cheery despite the clouds, friends mingling with Youtubers. Everyone had a great time, despite it being the afternoon, without food or alcohol. When everyone went home around nine, Ian was so tired, he fell asleep without cleaning. He promised himself he would clean in the morning.

***

"Luuuuuuunchtiiiiime with Smoooooosh." Anthony bellowed at the camera.

"Gonnaaaaa get some fooooooood." Ian bellowed as well. He had woken up early, again, and spent the morning cleaning up after yesterday's party.

"Yeah." Anthony finished un-climactically. "Chicken." Ian nodded as the two walked to the car. He didn't think chicken would be too bad.

"Boys, boys, boys, we like boys in cars." Anthony sang from the passenger's seat. Ian laughed.

"Who sings that?"

"Mister Gaga." Anthony answered, putting a paw up. Ian didn't actually think Gaga was a man, but smiled anyway.

"So girls will like us because we're in a car?"

"Maybe only trannies."

"Even better!" Ian yelled. Anthony let out a peel of laughter. "BOYS, BOYS, BOYS-"

"WE LIKE BOYS IN CARS!"

"BOYS BOYS BOYS!"

"BUY US DRINKS IN BARS!"

"BOYS BOYS BOYS!"

". . . I don't know the words." They gave a light laugh of defeat.

At the drive thru, they started singing again. "Sitting in the drive thru, sitting in the drive thru."

On the way home, Ian realized he was taking a direction his stomach would regret, but acted casual, hiding his terror.

"Oh my God, Ian, look! Speed bump!" Anthony yelled, and they both yelled out in pain when they drove over it. Ian's stomach twinged, and he did his best to ignore it as they passed over the next few speed bumps. By the end, the pair was holding back fake tears.

"Oh, God, no. Ian, Ian please." Anthony was slumped in his seat, pleading with Ian not to pass the final speed bump. Ian shook his head sadly.

"It's the only way to get home, Anthony. I'm so sorry." His tears were a bit more real, as the pain his stomach was in had brought them out.

"Ian, if I don't make it, tell your mom I said hi." The last speed bump came, and Anthony choked, and fell over, eyes wide open. There was a heavy silence in the car.

"More chicken for me." Ian finally said, and Anthony sat up with a laugh. He tried not to be as disturbed by fake dying as he actually was, but deep down it had become the most hated parts of his week to fake his death on Mailtime or in a video. He didn't want to fake die when he knew the real thing was so close. But at the same time, he wanted to joke a bit about death, laugh in its face. There was no denying it, though, it was close. Today was the first of March. He had until mid-June.

Ian felt off all through lunch, and tried to eat as little as possible without drawing suspicion. But after Anthony left, he felt awful. He threw up multiple times, and spent several hours in the bathroom, holding back sobs. He hated feeling sick. He hated dying. Sure, many parts of his life after the diagnosis had been fun, he'd filmed and laughed as usual, but there was no question the pain had multiplied exponentially, he was drowning in it. And the worst part of drowning was that he couldn't cry for help.

On Friday, he resumed acting like things were fine as the crew arrived in the morning. They began setting up normally as the actors of the band came. Anthony was the flutist, Ian was the ukelele leader, Peter was on violin, and a girl they'd worked with last food battle, Taylor, was banjo. Together, they formed Sexy Beatz, the band about to get a hit from their song Ukelele Techno Spree. Ian couldn't deny, it was a great script.

"Okay, I think we're going to start from the beginning. Everyone have their instruments?" Anthony was making sure everyone was in position.

"We don't use them for this part." Ian commented. "Only the ukelele and violin."

"Oh, right." Anthony corrected himself. "Okay, Ian and the ukelele on the couch, I'm walking in, Peter get out for a sec, Taylor, you're getting ready to walk in."

Everyone took their positions, getting ready to act. Soon, the camera was rolling, and Ian began, strumming the ukelele. Beside him, Anthony walked into the room from the hallway.

"Hey, man, what is that?"

"Dude, it's my ukelele. Don't you hear me rocking out all the time?"

"No, I'm always busy doing killer flute solos."

". . . That's the gayest thing I've ever heard."

"Well. . . are you actually good at ukelele?"

"Yeah, man, I'm fantastic. I just wish I could show the world." Ian looked away wistfully as Taylor walked in, playing her violin.

"Hey, Taylor, I didn't know you could play violin." Anthony said to her.

"Yeah, I rock at violin. My boyfriend Peter and I do violin/banjo duets together after sex." Taylor cracked a smile, and they called cut. The crew started filming again and she repeated the line.

"That's the hottest thing I've ever heard." Ian said seriously. "But wait. I can play ukelele, and Ant can play flute, and you two have violin and banjo skills?"

"We should form a band!" Anthony yelled.

The crew called cut once again, and they all picked up props and started moving to cars. They had to go on set, the same building they used for the voodoo dolls video when Ian was applying to be a substitute teacher. Being an actor was a lot of work, and people often forgot how long the process was to make whatever's entertaining them.

On the new set, they met KassemG. At this point, it seemed every Youtuber was in on this video. Whatthebuck had even filmed a small piece for them, a fake report on their insanely popular new band, and sent it over. KassemG was there to be a big time producer picking up the band.

"So who are you? Why do we want you?" He asked seriously as they began filming.

"We're-"

"Who the hell said you could talk, Peter?" Ian stared him down before answering the question. "We're Sexy Beatz, and we have a different sound, and a song planned that's gonna blow your mind."

The big time producer leaned back in his chair. "Okay, lay it out." At this point, they would insert the music video that they filmed Wednesday.

Filming ended for the day, and Ian was sick and exhausted by the time he got home. He spent the night in the bathroom.

On Saturday, they all met back at the house to film the band's decline.

"Yeah! We're so popular!" Anthony yelled as the group walked through the door, acting as if they had just returned from a party.

"We're bigger than the Beetles!" Ian yelled, throwing wads of money into the air. They all cheered, and then called cut. They dispersed as they changed from their party clothes, and into their band clothes. They were all wearing their most expensive things, plus fake gold.

"Okay, guys, I just wrote our next great hit. Ukelele Bop!" Ian said excitedly, and the group groaned. "What?"

Anthony walked up to him. "Man, we're sick of ukelele's. We have really cool instruments, too, ya know."

Ian looked angry and hurt. "But our last five hit singles have been about ukelele's!"

"That's why we're sick of them." Taylor said, annoyed. Ian looked at them manically.

"You are going to sing a ukelele song, or you will never sing again!" He pulled out a fake gun from behind his back.

"No!" Peter yelled, and Ian acted insanely angry. He turned and fake-shot Taylor. She screamed and fell to the ground, Anthony and Peter shouting. 

"How could you?" Anthony yelled. Ian advanced on him, and Anthony picked up the violin from Taylor's hand.

They paused the scene for a moment, getting Ian ready. 

"Just be careful, okay?" he said to Anthony with a nervous laugh. Anthony nodded, and they filmed Anthony fake-hitting Ian with the violin. Ian fell to the ground, and sighed with relief. Filming was over.

"Okay." Anthony pulled Ian up, and Ian tried to pretend he wasn't as weak as he was. "I just need to do the audio, then you, then we edit." Everyone started packing as Anthony spoke dramatically into the mic, providing the narration of the epic tale.

"It all started on an ordinary day." That would be used for the beginning. 

"And so, we became a band. We searched for a producer, someone who could show off our true talent." That would be used just before the KassemG scene.

"We became the biggest stars in the world. But it wouldn't last." That would be for the returning from the party scene.

"Afterwards, the band broke up. Peter buried his girlfriend, and moved to Mexico to become a drug mule. I retired, rich, and Ian disappeared for years. He came back a year ago, with a new album about breaking up the band, killing Taylor, and his love for ukelele's, and now he's richer and more popular than ever. But one day, karma will get him. Or I will." Anthony did several takes of an evil laugh.

Ian stepped forward to record the ending. "If you'd like to see bloopers and a deleted scene, click the link below! Song now available on ITunes, band shirts available at the Smosh merch page! Thanks for watching, click here to subscribe . . ." he whispered the last part. "or I'll kill you with my ukelele."

The entire weekend was dedicated to editing, and Ian was so busy he could barely think. Anthony was alright, talking often about how much he liked the ending, because they could do a sequel. Ian just hoped that sequel could come before June. Before it was too late.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Ian was back in therapy. After such a busy week, he felt as though it had been forever -- he almost missed it. He was sitting in his comfortable seat, Kris talking to Ruby about some paperwork very quickly. He soon came in and shook Ian's hand.

"Hello, there, my boy! Good to see you again!" Kris smiled. "Sorry, mess up with the paper work."

"It's alright." Ian nodded, not minding.

"So how are things? What've you been up to?" Kris asked, picking up his glasses from the coffee table and resting them on his stout nose.

"We were really busy this week." Ian admitted. "We did this crazy long video, wrote a song, filmed with other Youtubers, it was intense."

Kris nodded. "And how are you liking that?"

Ian sighed and thought a moment. "It's nice having a distraction, but I think I was stretching myself thin. Literally." He looked down. He had lost about fifteen pounds since the year started three months ago, and was spending much of his time hoping no one would notice and point it out.

"Hmm." Kris looked at him, too. "I wouldn't know much about your health right now, Ian, but I think maybe it's normal to lose weight like this in your situation. Just make sure you're eating properly." Ian nodded, and for a moment they sat in comfortable silence.

"I did think of a topic today, actually. Let me know if you don't like it." Kris interjected after a dull moment.

"What's the topic?" Ian asked.

"High school." Kris looked at him seriously. Ian didn't really know how he felt about that. High school for him was as it was for everyone: filled with memories, good and bad.

"Okay." Ian finally said. Kris granted him a small smile before continuing.

"So, what was high school like for you? What were your grades, what sports did you do?"

"I was in track all four years, I did two years in middle school, too. Nothing else. I had pretty decent grades, I was alright but I wasn't a genius or anything." Ian said, stretching and leaning back in his chair.

"By decent..." Kris trailed off.

"B's and C's." Ian admitted. "Mostly C's." Kris nodded.

"And six years of track? Why did you like it so much?" Kris asked. Ian noticed his stocky frame before, with a few Santa comparisons, and assumed he played football. He knew a footballer wouldn't understand why someone would enjoy track, so he sat silent for a minute, in attempt to put his feelings into proper words.

"I joined track seventh grade, because my mom made me join a sport. I hated the first few weeks; it was hard, I was sore, I had to stay after school almost every day. But after that, after a workout, I actually felt good. I got that little soreness, and the better breathing, and I just felt fresher . . . cleaner. I liked myself more, I made some friends, so I ended up staying on the team." Ian hesitated again. "I didn't really care about the competitions, I just liked the feeling after a run, which is why I still jog every day. Not as much as I used to now, but . . ." Ian trailed off, not sure how to continue.

"I understand, boy." Kris nodded. "You-" he cleared his throat. "You may have noticed I myself am a bit doughy around the edges, so that feeling is long gone for me . . . but yes, I understand. That's very good of you to love your body like that."

"Thanks, Kris, but you're not that doughy." Ian smiled at his elder friend, who waved him off.

"Now, what were you like during high school?" Kris inquired.

"Had a bad haircut." Ian admitted with a laugh.

"Didn't we all?" Kris smiled lightly, but Ian felt the man would prefer to talk seriously.

"I was okay. Didn't have the most friends, socially awkward, spent awhile pining after Anthony, until, you know." He twisted and cracked his fingers.

"Ah, yes, I recall. How did you feel, Ian, when people called you gay?" Kris was thinking back to an old therapy session.

Ian frowned. "It hurt, like, it wasn't great. But I really thought I loved Anthony, so I never said anything. I was confused, I was bullied. After Anthony was humiliated by it, I decided if I heard it again I'd stop it. And I-" Ian shook his head. It was a difficult time for him.

Kris had leaned forward, spectacles slipping down his nose. "Yes, Ian?"

Ian released a shaky breath. "We were walking in the hall one day, me, Ant, some guys from track, and someone standing by the lockers just yelled out 'hey, fags!' Anthony just turned and started walking away, but he looked so embarrassed. Not as embarrassed as the first time he found out, this was the second, but still . . . I ran up to the guy who said it, he was the half-back on the football team, and I hit him so hard I knocked him out. Broke his nose. They still called us gay, but they did it behind our backs, and Ant never heard about it again."

Ian's eyes weren't tear-filled, but only because he tried so hard to hold his emotions back. He could feel the stress penetrating him, so he closed his eyes and started his yoga breathing, air moving rhythmically in and out of his lungs. 

"Stress reliever." He heard Kris note, and opened his eyes. "We learned to breathe that way in psych class back in Brown. You must be doing your yoga." 

Ian nodded, thinking of Kris' college. Rhode Island, then. He judged the man's accent and assumed he was from somewhere near there. He'd only been to New York, and found it too crowded, too busy. He preferred the comfort of Sacramento.

"Were you, ah, suicidal, Ian?" Kris watched him with a tender gaze.

Ian sniffled and twisted his hands. "Before all that, I was happy. And after I decided to move on from Anthony, I tried to stay positive, but for awhile, I just felt so heartbroken --so empty. I considered -- I almost . . . I almost attempted something. But I fixed myself up, I got myself better. And I'm glad I did." Ian finished firmly. Despite having cancer, he was glad to be there.

Kris smiled thoughtfully. "I'm glad, as well, Ian. Depression or suicidal behavior in high school is common, but it's good to see someone overcome it. Would you like to speak of it some more, Ian?"

"No, I'd rather just move on." Ian admitted tiredly. He felt slightly drained, and would rather forget that awful period in his life, but doubted Kris would want to just change subjects.

"Moving on, then, what was your favorite class?" Kris asked abruptly.

"Oh," Ian said, startled. "English, I liked...history, too. Earth science. Not math."

"Why? I mean, why did you like what you liked, and disliked the others?" Kris questioned.

"Well, math is just numbers most of the time, pretty boring. And Earth science was the only science class I ever fully enjoyed, because we got to look at the universe, the planet, the rocks. Geology, fossils, that was cool. I never admitted it to anyone, but I thought it was cool." Ian thought a moment. "Biology was okay, but I hated chem and physics. Too much work for things I didn't care about. I liked English because I liked reading and writing. Ant and I still write, we write the skits. And I thought history was interesting. I preferred global over American, but both had some good stories."

"That seems like your favorite." Kris said, and elaborated when Ian looked confused. "Stories."

"Yeah . . ." Ian said, deep in thought. He could really find nothing better than a good story. Except, making one, which he found to be an excellent thought, because they were all making stories, at every moment -- they all lived. All lives were stories, but it was up to those who lived them to make them good. He, despite the process, only hoped his own story would be remembered, would be interesting, would be loved.

***

"Welcome to another Ian is Bo- wait, I'm not Ian!" Anthony yelled to the camera. Ian was sitting to the side, feeling nauseous, but still trying to contribute.

"God, Anthony!" He yelled in a voice similar to that of a grouchy old man. "Why are you stealing my identity?"

"I'm Ian!" Anthony yelled out. "And I'm not answering your question, because I have ADHD -- oh look, something shiny!" He ran wildly over to the mail tower, and the pair doubled over with laughter. 

"Let's open some mail!" Ian yelled cheerfully, ignoring the twinge in his stomach. 

They spilled over some boxes of mail, and started ripping into envelopes. Instead of discussing the mail, however, Ian lingered on his thoughts from therapy. "Remember that time we stole all the chalk we could find, and then we dumped it all on Peter DiMaggio's desk?"

Anthony burst into laughter. "Oh yeah, fifth period English! Junior year, oh my God, do you remember his haircut?"

It was Ian's turn to laugh. "Jesus, it looked like a rat crawled in it and died. And remember, freshman year-"

"He had it dyed blonde?" Anthony finished, laughing at the memory. "He looked so bad." Ian agreed, picturing the boy's bright blonde hair, that he shaved off with embarrassment a week later.

"And remember when Joe hit that guy's mailbox? We drove away-"

"So fast, in that shitty old T-bird, the thing broke down two miles away!" Anthony finished again, and they both shook with laughter. "And remember that time you broke that guy's nose?" Anthony howled.

"Who, Ricky Astin?" Ian asked with a laugh. He ended breaking two noses in high school, one of a bully, one of a friend who had accidentally walked into his locker.

"Nah, but that was funny. I was thinking Frankie Mandini. You pummeled that guy!" Anthony didn't laugh as hard, but gave Ian a look of admiration from behind the camera. Ian smiled and nodded, pretending he wasn't just discussing the bully with a therapist two hours previously.

"Oh, yeah, that douche deserved it." And then, out of curiosity asked: "What ever happened to that guy?"

Anthony shook his head. "Went away on that football scholarship, would've been rich and famous if the idiot didn't wreck his car. He was drunk, he died." They both went silent for a moment, Ian deep in thought. He hadn't known the old enemy died. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't think of anything to fit what he was feeling. After a moment full of mixed feelings, he surmised his feelings for the teen:

"What an asshole."

***

He called a lawyer on Tuesday, knowing he couldn't put it off any longer. He met the man and saw him again on Wednesday, then had to talk to Anthony about it after Lunchtime. He tried to be casual, despite nearly shaking with pain after having to face some American-Mexican food.

"Hey, Ant, I gotta ask you about something." Ian said to him, as he was putting on his jacket to leave. Ian noticed that soon his friend wouldn't need a jacket, and thought of how hot the weather would be at the end.

"Sure, anything." Anthony answered casually. Ian bit his lip.

"Okay, it's not like a huge deal or anything, it's-it's just precautionary." he stumbled a bit over his lie, and saw a look of worry creep onto Anthony's face. "Will you witness my will?"

Anthony stared at him, surprised, and the space between them filled with silence. Ian made an attempt to seem casual, but he could feel Anthony's fear.

"Wha -- yeah -- Why are you making a will?" Anthony finally responded, still in shock, voice slightly softer. Ian noticed it got that way when he was afraid, unlike his own, which got louder.

"Just in case, man." Still seeing the fear, Ian stepped over and patted his arm, a little more gentle than would seem normal for two straight friends. "Look, nothing's gonna happen. It's just in case. I'm not dying next week." _I've got a few more months for that,_ Ian thought, but he pushed the thought away as he saw his friend's face relax.

"Okay, sure. When?" Anthony looked a lot less tense.

"Saturday." Ian said. "I'll pick you up at four?" Anthony nodded, and they said goodbye before parting. While alone and sick later, Ian thought of all his lies. It was for the best, in his mind, but he couldn't help but feel guilty.

***

Fahad Chowdhury was a nice man, as Ian learned when meeting with him, but very professional. Ian eventually realized he was glad for that -- he didn't want someone asking too many questions. 

Sitting with Anthony in Mr. Chowdhury's office, the pair were going over Ian's will before signing.

". . . And the business affairs will be left to Mr. Padilla?" The lawyer, a tall, lanky man in his thirties, questioned the pair, and they nodded. When Ian died, Anthony would make all the money from Smosh, something Ian made sure of. He wanted his friend to be financially set when he was gone.

"So that just leaves the personals." Chowdhury scanned the will. "Some items for your mother, a donation to the Sacramento Baptist Church, and for Mr. Padilla, 'anything you want from the house, unless my mom asks you not to take it.'"

Anthony had given Ian an odd look when he heard about the donation to the church, but stayed silent, nodding solemnly. Ian decided it was best to donate some money to the church, after he had donated some of his clothing and books, and planned on donating more.

They each signed the will, thanking Mr. Chowdhury, and left quietly. In the car, Anthony asked Ian if they could skip the meal he suggested on the way. Ian knew the will was getting to him, but he only nodded. The guilt covered him, a sheet of ice that separated him from his friend. Anthony was depressed just at the thought of Ian dying, and Ian knew he would be, and soon. He didn't want to imagine how Anthony would react. He couldn't.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Ian felt nervous and clammy as he sat in his therapist's waiting room. His anxiety had forced him to arrive early, and now he sat alone, taking deep breaths and twiddling his thumbs. He needed to talk to Kris, get it out of his mind. In the cold of the waiting room, he felt a chill race down his spine, at the mere pondering of the subject they were about to discuss.

"Ian!" Kris had opened the door to his office, and stood cheery in the doorway, instead of Ruby calling him in as usual. Ian smiled and stood, walking into Kris' office. The elder man patted him heavily on the back before shutting the door and following him in, sitting with him in their comfortable space. "How are you?"

"Good." Ian responded, only because he was used to responding with it. He shook his head. "No, not good. I-I kinda wanted to talk about my week."

Kris looked concerned, smile fading, and nodded professionally. "What would you like to discuss, my boy?" 

Ian sighed. "Last week . . . I wrote my will." For a moment, sad silence hovered between them.

"I see." Kris studied his face. "And what was that like?"

"I went to see a lawyer on Tuesday, and we took a few days to fill it out, and then we had a witness sign it. It just, it just made things feel- I knew it was real, I knew it was happening, but . . ." Ian looked at him, lost.

"It was a painful reminder of what's to come." Kris finished. Ian nodded.

"And it's not like I forget sometimes, I'm in pain every second of the day, it's all I think about. I just play it down, and the will made it pretty-pretty loud." Ian kept tripping over his words, nervous and frustrated.

Kris nodded. "I understand that you would, uh, play it down, Ian. It's big, and it's scary, and it's something no one wants to go through. And these big events that occur along the way, like getting a will signed, are painfully large steps. What's important is that you don't deny it's happening, but don't surrender yourself to it. Just remember, I'm always here to talk to you." Kris spoke professionally, but ended with the sly smile of a friend.

Ian nodded, trembling less. Just staying normal sounded fine, not ignoring the imminent horrors facing him, but retaining the strength Kris had been encouraging him to hold since his first meeting with him.

"Now, if you don't mind me asking, what were the specifics of the will? Was there anything majorly significant?" Kris leaned forward and addressed him.

"No, no, I don't mind." Ian thought back a moment. "Anthony gets Smosh in its entirety when I'm gone, and I also said he could have anything he wants from the house, as long as Mom says it's ok. And he gets some of the money, and Mom gets more and the house, and I donated a little to the church -- because I've been donating my clothes there." He explained. "The deacon is nice."

Kris smiled. "I should hope so. I've met quite a few mean ones. My own Rabbi is a good man, though, I've learned to trust and respect him and the temple quite highly over the years."

Ian chuckled. "Sounds like a good enough place." Kris nodded and resumed his serious facade once again.

"So what do you plan on giving to Anthony?" Ian shrugged.

"I want him to take whatever. The props, he'll need those, anything that, I don't know, reminds me of him or something. I have a ton of X-box games, I want him to take those." He giggled nervously. "Maybe he can try to beat my old scores."

Kris smiled. "And who witnessed the will?"

"Anthony." Ian answered, jittery. "Because he was there, Kris, I didn't put you on it, but I can assure you, your help right now will mean there's something left for you."

Kris looked at the coffee table, and Ian sensed the man's pride. He knew he was helping Ian, knew how important he was, but was shoving it down, keeping himself modest. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

"Thank you, Ian. Your care and concern, especially at this time, mean leaps and bounds to me. But moving attention back to your previous words, Anthony signed as witness? How did he react?" Kris resumed his professionalism for what felt like the fifth time today.

"Not-not well." Ian wrung his hands again, and looked at the curtains. "I asked him after lunch Thursday, and he looked terrified. Then he seemed okay when I picked him up Saturday, he even asked if I wanted to get some dinner after it was over, but he looked all freaked out when we were going over the paperwork." Ian gulped nervously, not wanting to think of his friend's discomfort. "And after he was really quiet, and we didn't even eat. He was just freaked out by even the thought of me-" Ian stopped and repositioned himself, then fell silent.

"Well, you are his greatest friend, Ian. Take the time to imagine your life without him." Kris looked earnest, but Ian only shook his head. He didn't even want to imagine what life would be like if he lost Anthony now. Kris understood and quickly continued. "It's a scary thought for him, but he should be fine. I have a feeling he'll recover."

Ian leaned back, satisfied with this. He knew his friend would recover, he just didn't know what it would be like after he was gone. He pushed the thought away -- he wasn't ready to think about that just now.

"But since we've talked of your will, we may as well talk of your actual symptoms. If you'd be alright opening up like that, of course." Kris eyed him cautiously.

"No -- yeah-" Ian was flustered. "I mean, I haven't talked to anyone about this stuff since I was diagnosed, but I don't want it to be weird. Like, everything that goes on is pretty gross." Ian scratched his head uncomfortably. He didn't want to create an awkward situation with the old man.

His elder nodded in understanding. "It may be uncomfortable talking about, um, bodily functions, Ian, but it is necessary. If you don't want to discuss it with me, you can surely speak to Doctor Marrow about it. Whoever you'd feel more comfortable with. Of course, I can't help with the pain, I'm not that sort of doctor."

Ian nodded, instead of telling Kris that he helped with quite a bit of pain. "I think it'd be way more comfortable talking to you, over Marrow." 

Kris nodded and cleared his throat. "So, where would you like to begin?"

Ian sighed and cringed. "The bathroom." Kris raised his eyebrows, and Ian elaborated. "The worst of my symptoms lead to the bathroom."

"It is a stomach disease." Kris commented with a frown. Ian nodded and continued.

"I throw up all the time, mostly water and bile, because I can barely keep food down. I hate it, I've always hated throwing up. It's too acidic, and it's a sick feeling, when your food's coming back up. But kneeling in front of a toilet is better than-than sitting on it."

Kris nodded, and Ian winced in fear of how awkward things were becoming. "I have diarrhea a lot, and sometimes blood, and after Lunchtime with Smosh, it's always way worse. Literally, hours of pain. Just sitting there, crying, all cramped up-" he shook and paused at the very thought. "It happens at least once a week, sometimes three or five. It sucks. It's the worst thing I've ever had to endure. It makes my whole body ache."

The words seemed to bounce throughout the room as Ian stopped, sitting in silence with his hands locked together in his lap. Kris collected himself before speaking. "I'm very sorry, Ian. If I could make all of this go away, I would. But for now, all we can do is face your pains. All we can do now, is wait."

The quiet buzzed around them. _Wait_. It seemed as if they were doing so much more than that. Preparing, confessing, talking, and they were doing all of that, and it was all important. But it was, very simply, a waiting game. But that made it seem unimportant, ordinary, and it was not, no occasion was. Life was only a waiting game, but every action you took during that game was big, and important, and beautiful. Waiting is only a detail of the adventure.

***

Ian was considerably more cheerful as he filmed Ian is Bored with his best friend later that day. He had discussed his will and finally voiced his symptoms aloud, and felt well enough to be rowdy with his friend. Anthony, too, looked better than the last time Ian had seen him, and he realized Kris was right, he had bounced back.

"Mothafuckin' Link. Look at that badass." Anthony observed a piece of fan art as Ian tore into an envelope.

"Speaking of Link." Ian pulled out a plush version of the video game hero.

"Speaking of sexy dolls." Anthony was removing a realistic baby doll from a package. "Ew, no, this is way too life like."

"That's probably human hair." Ian commented. Anthony laughed and held the doll away from him.

For the rest of their mail opening session, the boys were happy, more so than they'd been in weeks. Ian had just a few hours of not feeling any pain, any cramps, or any nausea, which of course all returned later in the night. And Anthony moved on from his sour mood after witnessing Ian's will, and was cherishing the small amount of time he had left with his friend. Life, for only a moment, was in Ian's favor.

***

Ian spent most of Lunchtime with Smosh in a dull cloud of exhaustion. He hadn't slept all week, finding himself for some reason tossing and turning. Anthony only laughed and made a comment halfway through their pizza lunch.

"Dude, you look dead, how tired are you?" Anthony was smiling, leaning against the table as he pulled out his phone.

Ian smiled in return, trying to look like he'd gotten more sleep than he actually had. "Dunno, man, just couldn't sleep last night." Anthony only snorted as he asked for Twitter questions. But after lunch, he leaned over to Ian and spoke to him in a quiet tone.

"I'm serious about that sleeping thing, Ian, you've been tired all week. If it's Mel, if you need to talk, I'm right here." Ian gaped at him, then looked down, sudden tears in his eyes at the care his friend had for him. "I'm going, I'll edit at home, now you get some sleep. Okay?"

"Yeah." Ian said, gathering his strength. He thought the scratch in his voice was noticeable, but Anthony said nothing, only nodding and walking out.

Ian didn't sleep, though, he was only violently sick, but he called Doctor Marrow, deciding to get a sleeping aid. The lack of rest had been driving him crazy, and now Anthony was bothered by it. He had to get help -- for his sake, for Anthony's sake.

***

He found himself waiting in the cold metal chair once again, shaking in the hated thing. He was unsettled by the chair he sat upon, in the office he sat in, then and on that day so long ago when he was told he had cancer. Doctor Marrow came in after only ten minutes of waiting, distracting Ian from the terrible place he was in.

"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Hecox?" Marrow shook his hand and looked into his face, and Ian did not miss the look of pity that the doctor wore.

"I'm having problems sleeping." Ian said, getting to the point. He didn't want to spend more time in the room than he needed.

"We have something for that." Marrow nodded, also acting business-like. "I can prescribe a sleep aid, if you like."

"Uh, yeah, that's fine. That would be good, actually. It wouldn't . . . give me nightmares, would it?" Ian recalled his experience with the Zofran, and Marrow quickly shook his head.

"No, the only possible symptoms that could mess with the brain would be nausea, dizziness, and depression, but that's common with every sleep aid." 

Ian nodded, not liking the idea of a medicine that could push him into a depression, but knowing he needed sleep. Anthony had asked him to, he couldn't upset his friend further now, he wanted them to be happy together in these last few months.

"Okay, I'm prescribing Zaleplon, it's a nice sleep aid, you take a pill right before going to bed. If you have any problems, call me or come back." Marrow sloppily wrote his prescription onto a paper, then sent Ian on his way. Ian was grateful for both the prescription, and getting to leave the soulless room. He found himself even more thankful that night, after his prescription was filled, and he had a full night's sleep, for the first time since his diagnosis.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Ian found himself surprisingly well rested as he sat in therapy. He hadn't realized how much sleep he was losing from the cancer, even prior to his diagnosis, and was now satisfied by the increase in rest he had. The Zaleplon had done exactly as promised, and although it didn't make Ian any less cramped or nauseous, he felt his condition had improved exponentially, of which he informed his therapist.

"So, Anthony pointed out that I looked tired Thursday." Ian began, settling into the huge chair.

"Oh?" Kris threw him a look of concern. "Was he suspicious?"

Ian shook his head. "He thought I might still be feeling down about Mel. Which I am, ya know, she was great . . . but I have actually had a lot of problems sleeping, more so in the past week."

Kris processed the words thoughtfully. "You look very well rested today. Did you finally get some sleep?"

"Yeah." Ian smiled, then frowned as the thought of his other doctor's hospital room. "I went to Marrow Friday morning and got a prescription for sleep medicine. It's been working, so far."

"Excellent. Any foul side effects?" Kris appeared genuinely pleased and curious.

"Nausea, dizziness . . . so it's basically the same as it's been." Ian explained.

"And no . . . no unfortunate dreaming?" Kris hesitated to ask.

"No." Ian said, faint smile returning. "I've been good. Despite, well, my condition."

Kris chuckled and nodded. "And what will you be doing this week, since you're so well rested?"

"I've been thinking of cleaning out my closets a little bit. Spring cleaning, and donating some things." Ian said seriously.

Kris nodded at the man, in silent approval of his thinking to the future, but contempt for what his future brought.

And Ian did as he said he would, slowly throughout the week. Upon arriving home, he fell sick just before Anthony came over, but managed to film Ian is Bored normally. Anthony didn't mention it, but Ian could tell Anthony was pleased at how well rested his friend was. He didn't admit to getting a prescription, and only assumed Anthony thought his friend spent the weekend in bed, asleep.

After Anthony left, Ian edited alone for a short time, then fell sick once again, then took his medicine and fell asleep. The next day, he looked well while filming, but was distracted, and could finally amend this after the crew's departure. He took a plastic garbage bag from the garage, and took it to his hall closet as if on a mission.

Opening the closet door, he paused to examine what he would be cleaning. Mostly coats and props resided in the small space, so Ian didn't worry about it being too much work. He pulled out the first jacket, one he hadn't worn in years, and threw it in the bag. The next one he pulled out was the one he had worn in the Sexy Beatz video, the one he had decided to wait until Spring to get rid of.

It was March 20th, which meant the weather had been turning warm, and the famous California sun was shining brightly once again. And it was Spring, Ian's final Spring. Summer was always his favorite, but he knew he wouldn't see the whole season. He sighed and dumped his jacket into the bag.

He pushed several more jackets into the bag, along with some old sweaters. He saw he had two umbrellas, and donated one, knowing rain would come with Spring, and he would still find need for a shield from it. He added several scarves, mismatched gloves, a pair of earmuffs and a ski mask, all from the shelf on top, to the collection in the bag. Pushing forward, he placed a baseball, a mitt, and a bat he kept up there long ago into the bag as well.

Leaving the bag, he fetched another, returning quickly to the closet. Only three jackets and several wire hangers hung on the bar, but two of those jackets were left by his mother and Anthony. He kneeled down slowly, then sprawled out on to the floor. He grabbed an old pair of boots, shoving them into the bag, then did the same to two more. He threw in some older running shoes, his current ones safe in his room, then some old sandals. He left a pair of dress shoes, in case he needed them, but threw away a pair of heels Mel had abandoned.

Ian finally stood, tying both bags closed, and admired his work. The closet was now barren, save three jackets, an umbrella, some of his own shoes and many that Anthony left. He ended his cleaning for the day.

His cleaning continued Thursday morning, when he went to the garage to not only grab a garbage bag, but empty his car. He would be using it much more in the next few months (his mother would have to sell it after his death), but he knew he would be weak by then, and, unsure of what his physical state might be in the future, decided it was safer to make it spotless now.

Opening the passenger door, Ian remembered he needed to donate his bike, which he often kept in the backseat, and made a mental note as he opened the glove compartment. There wasn't much he could throw away, however: he kept the manual for the next driver, and most of the menus for himself and Anthony, and whatever other official documents he could find. Eventually he only threw away a few fast food menus, an old, crumpled script, a page of newspaper, a piece of candy, and a copy of "Of Mice and Men."

He then took his vacuum and cleaned the seats, the trunk, the floor, everywhere he could possibly reach. The whole process hurt and tired him, and halfway through he rushed away to the toilet. But eventually the car was clean, and after polishing the dashboard and rear view mirror, Ian quit his week's cleaning, a grim feeling resting in his pained stomach.

***

Sunday, he drove to the church, two black garbage bags resting in the backseat. He was donating again to the kind deacon, whose name he did not yet know, but he felt a special fondness for him all the same.

He arrived again as Sunday Mass was ending, flocks of people leaving the large, white building. He moved slowly against the crowd, bumping into everyone with his donations, and finally stopped in front of the organ, several feet from the deacon. The deacon saw Ian and smiled, stepping over to him while moving cautiously around the old women who seemed to always stay at the church and help out.

"Hello, friend, I believe we skipped introductions our last meeting." The deacon held out his hand, and Ian shook it, responding.

"Oh, yeah, I'm Ian."

"I am Deacon Tim Franklin, you may call me Deacon or Tim or Franklin, whatever you like." When Ian looked surprised, he laughed. "We're Baptist, we relax here." he reminded the young man. He was extremely tall and lean, bald and black with strong features. He looked like a leader, easily able to command a room, which was an important factor for a man who spoke to an assembly each week.

"Um, okay, Deacon." Ian gulped, then offered to him the black bags. "I brought these to donate."

The old women behind them sensed a donation, and flocked over to examine the charity. Ian, uncomfortable, took a step back, handing them the bag. Franklin smiled in gratitude.

"Thank you so much, Ian. I know your last donation was some time ago, but we at the Sacramento Baptist Church are grateful for any consideration to the less fortunate." He seemed truly thankful, and Ian wondered how often they received donations, and how many families needed them.

"Of course." Ian turned to leave.

"My child." Franklin called out, and Ian turned back to him. "Should you need to talk to anyone, or wish to find a place in our safe-haven, please feel free to find me. I am quite a trusted member of this church, my uncle was the previous deacon here, and my great-grandfather built the church with his own hands!"

Ian only nodded and walked out, bitter tears stinging his eyes as they did after his last donation, at the realization that one day, his sister's descendants would talk of him, and of Smosh, and of all the great things he did, but then speak only one word, only one hated word that would stain their memory -- cancer.

***

"Good afternoon, Ian. How was your week?" Back in therapy. It was routine now, but a routine Ian was glad for. He loved being able to talk about this difficult process, and he found a great friend in Kris.

"It was okay. I donated some clothes to the church yesterday, but the deacon, Tim Franklin, made me think of something, um, unpleasant." Ian flinched at his encounter in the church, despite his respect for the man he encountered.

Kris studied his frown. "What did the deacon make you think of, my boy?"

Ian still got a warm feeling when Kris called him that, and cleared his throat before explaining. "He was talking about how his great-grandfather built the church, and how his uncle was the deacon before he was. And all I could think of was my sister's future kids talking about me. Like, they would think I'm pretty cool, I bet, but the part they would remember most would be that I -- I got cancer." Kris opened his mouth to speak, but Ian spoke quickly before him. "Not that I don't think Smosh isn't big or important. It's the biggest, most important thing I've ever done, and I love it. And it's not that I care so much about my reputation, because everyone's gonna remember I was a pretty good guy. I'm just thinking of everyone living without me."

Kris looked as though he more properly understood the younger, and nodded. "Alright, that makes sense. You're very much at peace with yourself, Ian, and for that reason, you care less of your reputation than others, but you still care of your legacy. And, as you are aware, you will be remembered for Smosh, and for yourself as well. You're thinking of what it's going to be like for everyone you love when you're not around."

"Not just that." Ian said. "When they find out I've lied to them. When they find out I knew I had cancer for months. What if -- what if they hate me?" Tears filled his eyes, and the hot liquid splashed quickly down his face. He rubbed it away and sniffled in embarrassment.

"They might." Kris admitted. "Or they could be extremely upset, or pity you, or a combination of the three. You won't be around though, son, you won't know." 

Ian nodded, aware, but couldn't stop thinking of it.

"I know you're still thinking of it." Kris began, reading his mind. "But you have to expect critique in death, as you experienced in life. People will judge you, some will frown at you. But do you think those who truly loved you in life could hate you, so deeply and so permanently after your passing?"

Ian sat in thought, then slowly shook his head. He knew Anthony would be mad and upset, but he was just getting nervous now, just forgetting what he already knew: his friend loved him, and would love him until the end of his days.

"Thank you, Kris." Ian smiled at the wise man, eyes still teary, but mind recovering.

"You are so very welcome, my boy." Kris could not look more pleased to solve another's problems.

***

For much of the week's filming, Ian thought of the crew walking through his house, empty and dusty, filled with cobwebs and silence. He could clearly imagine the dust rising from the carpet as the big men, donned in their boots, trekked across it. He told himself repeatedly not to think of such things, that the house would not become suddenly dusty upon his death, but then reached the bitter conclusion that his house would be sold after he left, and no new Smosh videos would be made there.

This lead to him thinking of an episode of Smosh being filmed without him, at the park, with Anthony standing alone, looking foolish climbing up the slide without a friend. He wondered what would happen to Smosh without him. Would it be the same success, or would it crash and burn? Would he be replaced, or would Anthony perform alone?

He thought of this again during Lunchtime with Smosh. Every word out of both his and his friend's mouth's made him question the progression of events yet to come.

"Hey everyone, we're gonna get some vieners!" Anthony would laugh, flaunt a bad accent now, but what would he do when Ian was gone? Would he eat at the same places, would he keep his fake accent? When would he laugh again?

"Sitting in the drive thru, sitting in the drive thru . . ." And their song, when would he sing that song again, how much pain would it put him in? And who would he sing it with? Would he sit in the car alone, or with Kalel, or with a friend? 

"Oh, yah, ve got some vieners." Ian could still make Anthony smile, but after he left how long would it be before he would smile again?

Sitting with him at that table, Ian could feel a great divide between himself and Anthony. He knew Anthony would overcome his death, he was strong, and it was human nature to keep moving forward. But he knew, he knew one day, Anthony would have to do it without him, and that was all he knew. As he saw his friend, chomping happily on his hot dog, all he could picture was some morose future, where he ate in silence. Didn't scroll through Twitter. Didn't rate his meal and laugh with him and post a video.

He would miss Anthony's birthday, and his mother's, and his own, and Christmas, and the "apocalypse." He would miss 2013 and every year after. Anthony could get married, have kids, and he would never see. His mom would die, and he would not be there for her. Anthony could grow old and grey, but he would never be old and grey with him.

And the worst part was that he would never be sure. He would never be sure how life for his friend would change without himself in it. Uncertainty, to the mind, to the body, to the soul, was man's greatest enemy.

***

Ian may have been upset that week, but found his own answers over the weekend. He spent many stressful hours doing yoga, and in that time decided it was better to listen to Kris and not dwell on a future he would not be alive to control. _You can't have all the answers_ , he would tell himself grimly. _Life can't give you all the answers, and neither can death._

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long but not as much of a bummer as other chapters. Also Ian looks a little more ill than usual at the end of this one . . . hmmmm . . . HMMMMMMMM

Ian was already awake at two in the morning, just falling violently ill in the bathroom. Shuddering, he crawled back into his bed, tucking himself under the thick sheets that he would soon no longer need. It was the first of April, now, meaning a beautiful Spring, with Easter only a week away. It would be a lovely time for everyone else, reminding everyone of life, of beginnings, except Ian, who would only think of endings.

His cell phone rang, which interrupted his thoughts. He sighed and lifted it from the pillow next to him, seeing it was Anthony. He almost didn't pick it up, but figured it had to be important if he was calling this early.

"Ant, what's up?" His voice was hoarse after the acidic vomit forced itself up his throat, but it sounded as though he was just tired.

"Ian." Anthony began with a sense of urgency. "Is your refrigerator running?"

"What?" Ian asked, perplexed.

"Is it?"

"Yeah . . ." Ian answered hesitantly.

"Well then, you better go get it!" Anthony laughed maniacally and hung up. Ian shook his head and decided not to think of it, just wanting to go to sleep.

But at three, his phone rang again. Ian answered groggily.

"Hello?"

"Is your muffin buttered?" Ian stared at the caller ID. It was Anthony.

"What?"

"Would you like someone to butter your muffin?" Anthony giggled and hung up.

The same happened at four.

"Dude, stop c-"

"I'm looking for Jim?" It was a gruff voice, and Ian looked again at the caller ID: withheld.

"Oh, sorry, you have the wrong number." He hung up, shaking his head. Who the hell called their friends this early in the morning? Besides Anthony, whom he inferred to be merely restless.

He found himself kneeling in front of the toilet again at five, when the phone rang yet again, still from a withheld number.

"Hello?" He cleared his throat, sounding raspy again.

"Is Jim there?" He heard a man with a country drawl. Who was Jim?

"No, you have the wrong number."

And it rang yet again at six, as he climbed out of the shower.

"Hi, can I talk to Jim?" Now it was a girl? Ian paused and looked at the withheld number, thinking about her oddly familiar voice. In fact, the other voices sounded familiar, too.

"You have the wrong number." Ian said, hanging up. He looked at his screen, time and date glowing, and realized what was happening. It was April Fool's Day, and every year he and Anthony had to get each other somehow. Anthony must've resorted to prank calls, and gotten Kalel in on it, too. Well, he couldn't let him win.

His hands were shaking as he pushed the cart down the aisle at the local supermarket. He was in a lot of pain already, and the Demerol didn't seem to help. He wondered why things were hurting so much today, but tried instead to focus on his task.

It was now around nine, and Anthony and Kalel had called at least thirty more times, and he had received calls from many other people as well. He recognized Ray William Johnson's voice, and his mother laughed half way through her prank call, in which he commended her for her efforts. But now he was buying all he would need to pull off the greatest prank ever.

He wheeled the cart into the candy aisle, adorned with bunnies and extra sweets since Easter was so close. The sight of it made Ian's mouth water, but his stomach flipped in pain and he immediately lost his appetite. He stopped when he got to the large bags of jelly beans, and started tossing them into his cart. By the time he was finished, he had bought all the candy beans in the store, and thousands were sitting in his cart. He wheeled over to a register, where a nice looking guy, probably younger than him, stood to scan the items.

"Hey, what's your name?" Ian asked him as the teen scanned the candy, eying it suspiciously.

"Jim." He answered.

"Perfect." Ian smiled. "When do you go on break?"

"Ten. Why?" Jim looked even more suspicious, but Ian could tell he was mischievous, by that mad little sparkle in his eye.

"Listen, my friend's been prank calling me all day, so I thought of a way to get revenge. But I have a bad back, and need an accomplice." Ian, of course, didn't really have a bad back, he just felt way too sick to do the work needed on his own. 

Jim gave him a devilish grin. "What do you need me to do?"

Ian returned the grin, a sense of pride towards the unknown boy growing in his chest. "If I give you an address, can you meet me there at ten thirty?" He gave him the address, paid, and went home, stomach in pain, but actually having to force down an evil laugh. It would be such a great prank.

Ian spent the next hour at home, in pain. At first he was thankful the pain didn't cause any vomiting or bowel movements, but when all he could do was sit in pain, he felt he would rather just cringe on the toilet, defecation at least easing it momentarily. He took another Demerol (four hours after he took his first of the day, he followed his doctor's instructions), and drove over to Anthony's, parking behind a silver car at the sidewalk that he assumed to be Jim's.

"Hey!" Jim called out to him, stepping out of his car. "No one's home."

"Good." Ian responded. He knew every Sunday Kalel drove out to Mac, and Anthony visited his brother. He and Jim took the jelly beans from the trunk and examined the house. It was little and white, with two stories and a quaint porch, a cute pathway leading up to it. It was really picture-perfect, or it would be until Ian did his work. He handed a bag to Jim.

"We're going to need a ladder." He said, trembling with both pain and excitement. "He has one in the garage, I have a key. Start spreading these out on the porch." He fetched the ladder, with the emergency key Anthony had given him when he and Kalel first moved in. Leaning it against the house, he instructed Jim to start climbing.

By the time they were finished, Anthony's house looked like it came from a fairy tale. It was covered in jelly beans; the porch, the roof, the grass, the pathway, even the mailbox. Only a few birds and squirrels had ventured over to eat the candy, but Ian knew when he and his partner left, the place would be covered in animals.

"Thanks, man." He said to the teen, who was shaking with laughter.

"Dude, can I tweet a picture of this?" Jim asked him, pride lighting up his eyes. "Wait, let me mention you. What's your username?"

"SmoshIan." He responded, and laughed at the gleeful shock on his partner's face. 

"Dude, you're like huge on Youtube! This is so fucking cool!" The teen yelled as he took a picture of the house.

Anthony called yet again, and this time Ian heard his friend's brother's voice before hanging up. He had called twice while they were candy coating the home,and Ian had only feigned annoyance, hiding his laughter. He said goodbye to Jim, and the pair separated, but only one drove home caught in a sick feeling of pure joy, and maddening pain.

***

He knew Anthony would probably get home first, because Kalel had to drive all the way out to Los Angeles to visit Mac, and had spent much of his afternoon in anticipation. He had found Jim's tweet, because everyone was retweeting and laughing, and someone had screen-capped it and put it on Tumblr. Oh, Tumblr, land of the crazy. He ended up retweeting it, but when Anthony called five minutes later to prank him for roughly the fiftieth time that day, it was clear he was in his car on the way home, and hadn't seen it yet. When he did, though, the reaction was priceless.

"Hello?" Ian was literally holding back an explosion of laughter.

"What the hell did you do?" Anthony screamed from the other end of the line, but he was laughing so hard, one could barely understand him.

"April Fool's!" Ian shouted, and there was a very long time of only laughter between the pair. As Anthony went on to congratulate him, discuss the greatness of the prank, and project upon how furious Kalel would be,Ian couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride, and true friendship, with only the smallest amount of pain stirring in his stomach. 

***

The next day, Ian took the first few minutes of therapy to tell Kris of his prank, and they both sat together, roaring with laughter. In the morning, Anthony had tweeted a picture of his house, now only half covered in candy, but wholly covered in small animals eating it, making the prank even funnier. 

Kris smiled at Ian, gradually controlling himself. "So, my boy, you and Anthony prank each other every year?"

"Yeah." Ian nodded, wiping away a tear of laughter. He wasn't laughing that hard, because his stomach was still hurting, but the situation was just that great. "Since sixth grade. He took all the dirty clothes from the lost and found and put them in my locker, and I bought all the school's yogurt and stuffed it in his."

"Well, well, you both seem quite adept at it!" Kris beamed. "Is this what lead you two to begin making Smosh?"

"Partly." Ian answered with a smile. "We also just loved making people laugh. So we started making a few videos, and from there, we sort of just picked a name and ran with it."

"And, may I ask how you came up with the term 'Smosh?'" Kris asked, curiosity shining through his blue eyes.

"Everyone thinks it stands for something, or it comes from a great story." Ian said, and thought back to the crumpled piece of paper he had found the other month in his desk. They almost named themselves after their Mormon friend Brian, but they were thankful now of their choice. "The truth is, I was making fun of some guy's dancing, and Anthony said it looked like I was in a really shitty -- sorry -- mosh pit, and the word just formed from that. I don't even remember which of us said it first."

"Hmm." Kris hummed and rubbed his chin. "So what were the early days of Smosh like?"

"Well, we were like fourteen, so we were just goofing off, doing whatever, it wasn't really a big thing until about half a year after we named it. It would've been fun, it should've been more fun for me, but I was torn up over Anthony." Ian's smile had faded, and he resumed a face of neutrality, and a tone of haunting nostalgia. "I moved on, though, and Smosh helped us bond as friends. So it's been pretty great."

Kris only nodded, looking over the young man as though memorizing every detail about him. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. "While I find it unfortunate, my boy, that you spent the beginnings of Smosh in such a sad state, I am so thankful you moved passed it, found joy in life, made it here to me today. Knowing you is a privilege."

Ian nodded, and the smile returned to his face. He didn't have to say a word -- the old man knew his importance in Ian's unfortunately short life.

***

"So today on Ian is bored, we're gonna do something a little familiar." Anthony was winking at the camera, pointing down at the papers in front of them, as they sat at the table, divider between them.

"You guys suggested to us some characters from a movie or T.V. show to draw, and the most popular suggestion was Spongebob!" Ian was considerably lively and cheerful, because of his bittersweet nostalgia a few hours previous.

"Yeah, so, I haven't watched this show in like, four years-"

"I didn't watch this show until Mel told me to."

"You never watched Spongebob?"

"I've seen, like, three of them, and I didn't think they were that great."

"Well, prepare for some hate comments." They both laughed. They were used to shrugging off stupid comments, anyway.

Ian is Bored went off without a hitch, and predictably, Anthony drew the characters better. The pain in Ian's midsection did not return until he was alone, editing, but he did his best to ignore the stabbing feeling until taking his sleep medicine and falling into another long, deep, relieving rest.

***

The first few times Ian had gone to the organic food store, it had started as a grand adventure, and quickly moved into a pathetic scene of a grown man not knowing the difference between green beans and peas. Ian had mastered the place, now, however, and was in again after filming Wednesday in order to buy more oatmeal, and get more healthy snacks.

He began in the produce section, where most of what he bought was fresh, green vegetables, which he ate as either a salad or cooked with rice for dinner almost daily. He also bought fruit for when he became bored of just the greens, and would usually reward himself with half an apple after yoga, sealing the remaining portion in his fridge for the next day.

He ventured to the meat, where he only selected lean chicken breast (the organic labels bragging of it being locally raised and not given chemicals and steroids). He had stopped eating all other meats, expect the rare burger during Lunchtime, and usually he only pan-seared the chicken and ate it with rice. 

He skipped the dairy aisle, because he now only drank water, and cheese was already having adverse affects on his body. He had some yogurt left in his fridge, but decided not to get more when he was done with it, because he knew his body would soon reject all forms of dairy.

He bought some organic soup for when his stomach wasn't in the mood for solids, and more rice, because it was calming for the stomach, healthy, and cleaned out his body. He didn't buy any salty snack foods, he found they made him feel very nauseous, and skipped anything else he felt would cause vomiting. After finding his oatmeal, Ian paid and left, thinking silently in his car.

He never would have thought he would be the guy shopping at an organic supermarket, but now that he had cancer, almost his whole life had changed. And his stomach was hurting even more than usual, too, so it paid now more than ever to keep healthy. 

Ian ended up spending his spare time doing as he usually did, drinking water and doing yoga, even with the intense pain in his stomach, only halting his yoga for a moment on Easter to call his mom, then losing himself in the reverence of health once again.

***

"Ian, I feel as though you're not really paying attention today." Kris was staring at him, as they sat together in therapy, and Ian shook his head.

"Sorry, my stomach's just hurting. I'm fine. What were you saying?"

Kris continued his intense stare, and Ian squirmed uncomfortably. "Are you sure you're alright, Ian?"

"No, but I really don't want to think about it. Can we just talk about whatever you were talking about?" Ian just wanted a distraction from his aching stomach.

"Okay . . ." Kris said, concerned, but moving on. "I wanted to talk about your fans."

Ian smiled. "I love my fans. Crazy bastards." He said fondly with a sigh.

"What's your connection with your fans? How close are you with the public?" As Kris asked, he reached over for his glasses, cleaning them with his little cloth, and giving Ian a small nod, urging him to answer.

"I don't really think they know how much they mean to me. Like, they're just so important to me. Making people happy, that's amazing, and it's amazing how much some of them love us. They have blogs dedicated to us, they send us mail, they write occasionally creepy stories about us, it's great." Ian knew he wasn't as creeped out by the stories as Anthony was, he found most of them interesting, entertaining, and a few just hot, but never admitted anything, only acting as appalled as his friend.

"That's great, Ian. And you love them so much, because of their affection for you?"

"Well, I couldn't exist without them, my whole job is to make them laugh, to entertain them, to make them happy. And I'm really glad I'm doing it." Ian could never express in words how truly happy it made him to have the fans he had. It didn't matter if he was making some twelve year old fan girl or twenty year old procrastinator laugh, he would work just as hard for either of them.

"And you don't regret not announcing you have cancer to the world? To your fans?" Kris raised his eyebrows, but looked as though he already knew the answer.

Ian did as Kris expected, losing the small amount of joy his face held when he was thinking of his small army of an audience, and lowering his head, knotting his hands in his lap. "I can't face that. I can't see them like that. I -- it's just like with Mom and Ant and Mel. I'm not strong enough, I'm too selfish."

They sat in silence for a moment, Kris' perfectly predicted answer bouncing through each mind. When Kris was about to speak, Ian interrupted the silence.

"I think I'm going to delete my Facebook before I die." He looked focused. "And my Twitter, too. Not with a goodbye note or anything, just so no one has to deal with it for me. Not too far ahead, though, I don't want to freak out the fans. I . . . I love them very much." He said his last sentence softly, and the pair stared at the thick curtains, the seriousness of every other life, and every small decision, weighing down their tired shoulders.

***

Ian felt as though he was in a fog, all through filming. He was in so much pain, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. It, to him, was a miracle no one noticed. Even Anthony hadn't mentioned how distracted he was on set, not noticing his friend's ailments. His midsection burned every minute, and he was starting to feel powerless, exhausted by the pain. While the unknown stabbing continued, all Ian could do was shake, shake and be reminded of the miserable times ahead of him.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Ian was sitting in his least favorite chair. Cold and metallic, it was the polar opposite of the chair he curled comfortably into each week with Kris. He was waiting patiently for Doctor Marrow, who was speaking with a nurse when he asked Ian to wait in that lonely office. Ian shivered and looked out the window, where the morning sky was a pale blue, no clouds breaking the horizon.

"Good morning, Mr. Hecox." Doctor Marrow walked in, and Ian stood to shake his hand. Marrow shook, then sat behind his desk, Ian following the action suit. "How can I help you today?"

Ian sighed. "Lately, my stomach's been hurting so bad, it's ridiculous. And it's already been really bad before, but now, it's awful. I can barely breathe. I just want to know if it's part of . . . my condition, or if I need new meds or something." He had been worried about his stomach to put it off any longer. It was only ironic that he waited until Friday the 13th to go to his doctor.

Marrow nodded. "What exactly does it feel like?"

"Like stabbing. All over." Ian's breath hitched in pain.

"Where do you feel it hurts the most?" Marrow wasn't interrogating, only trying to determine how serious the situation was for his patient. He was a very caring doctor, and wanted the best for Ian.

"I guess here." Ian pointed to an area on his midsection, on the left and just beneath the breast. Marrow paled.

"Well, let me take you to get an MRI, we'll see if an image comes up. Follow me, please." Marrow stood quickly and left his office, Ian in tow.

"What sort of image is going to come up?" Ian asked, worried. He was unaware of what sort of horrors could be causing his pain.

"If we see anything where you were pointing to me, it would be an obstruction of some sort, which is . . . well, it's a serious problem. Depending on what it could be and where it could be caught, we'd have to get it out with some medication or a surgery." He was walking quickly through the deserted hospital hallways, nerves encouraging his speed.

"But I can't afford a surgery unless I'm covered for it. But meds-"

"Could seriously damage your organs, because they're already so weak in your condition. Let's just hope for the best." Marrow turned and continued his speedy walking, not looking Ian in the eyes as always.

"Where did I point to, what organ?" Ian asked, panicking.

"The liver." Ian lagged behind Marrow for a moment, gaping, then stepped again in time with the man. His liver. One of his most important organs, and all he could feel from it was pain.

***

Back again in the cold chair. Marrow had rushed him to an MRI machine, insisting he don a hospital gown, and Ian went in quickly and then dressed himself once again. Now he sat, waiting for Marrow to arrive with his scans.

"Mr. Hecox." Marrow greeted Ian as he stepped into the room, setting an x-ray onto a white, plastic board on the wall. His brow was furrowed, and Ian was unsure whether this meant good news or bad. He flipped a switch near the board, and lights behind it glowed, illuminating the x-ray.

Ian saw his body, but not as he would have liked. When he was told he had cancer, no one showed him the x-rays, and he wished it were this way now.

"You can see your original tumor, here." Marrow pointed to a large, white spot on the stomach. "And where it's spread, here, here, and here." He pointed to smaller white patches on his other organs. "But here's your liver, and there's no tumor, no obstruction."

Ian stared at the seemingly normal organ, before asking, "So, is this bad news?"

"No." Marrow shook his head, and they both took a breath of relief. "There's most likely a problem with your blood or urine, from either toxins or medication. I'd like to run a blood test, so we can find the actual problem. At this point, I recommend you stop taking Zaleplon."

Ian nodded, although curious as to how he would fall asleep that night. Doctor Marrow drew his blood, with a promise to have it rushed through the lab, and sent Ian home, scared but not hopeless.

Ian spent the rest of the day and evening cleaning -- he vacuumed every room, and dusted every corner of his home. He stayed up late in the bathroom, not finding himself in bed until about three, but he did succeed in falling asleep, despite his small concern over the matter that morning at the hospital. More waiting.

***

It was almost noon, and Ian found himself in the same chair as yesterday, Marrow shuffling through papers in a manilla folder that he assumed were the results of his blood test.

"Have you stopped taking Zaleplon?" Marrow asked, and a dark feeling settled over Ian, realizing the pill had something to do with his pains. He nodded.

"Good. Then, okay, I am going to give you my diagnosis, Ian, but you must not be alarmed, and must listen. Alright?" Ian nodded again, and he continued. "Your liver's failing."

Ian stared at him, mouth wide open. "B-b-wha-" was all he managed to say after about twenty seconds of silence.

"It was hard to pick up on, because you've been experiencing the same symptoms due to your cancer, but there is good news." Ian perked up. "The pain you were experiencing was due to your Zaleplon, which was speeding up the process of the liver failure. Since you stopped taking it, the pain is going to decrease, and return to the level it was in prior to what you've been feeling the past two weeks."

"Okay." Ian said slowly, still surprised, but continued. "So what should I do?"

"Your liver failure is in its early stages." Marrow answered. "So hopefully the damage that's been done will repair itself. If not, today is April 14th, so . . . it shouldn't really matter, this close to the end. We just want to keep the damage from going further. So I want to give you some hepatitis A and B shots, and recommend you wash your hands as often as possible, so we don't risk getting some sort of bacteria and making things worse. Is that alright?"

Ian absorbed the information, scratching his head in deep thought. He nodded, unsure of what to say, and Marrow lead him to a doctor's room, where he received his shots, then left.

At home alone, later, Ian stared idly at the vibrant sky outside, looking calm on the surface, but drowning in a sea of thoughts within. His liver was failing because he was dying, and he was in pain because of a drug he thought helped him. It felt like one giant betrayal, but he knew that he couldn't change things. The events that occurred were just more steps in his short life, steps that existed due to cancer, steps that would soon fade away as mere memories, just as he would.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Ian sat in a chair not of his own home once again, but unlike the chair he took two days previous, it was not cold and hard, rather the opposite. Warm and soothing, the plush chair in Doctor Kris Rosenthal's office was one he would prefer any day.

"You look pale, Ian. Are your symptoms worsening?" Kris frowned with concern.

"They're actually improving." Ian responded optimistically. "I've just been tired now that I can't take a sleep aid." He answered Kris' questioning look. "I went to my doctor about the pain yesterday, he said my liver was failing, because, ya know...I'm getting towards the end, and my body's breaking down."

Kris leaned forward, looking slightly alarmed. "Ian, liver failure is very serious. Are you in an advanced stage?"

Ian quickly shook his head. "No, it's really early, Marrow thinks it might start to heal on its own, and if it doesn't, the damage is minor." He decided to continue after seeing Kris' relieved expression. "The sleep aid I was taking was increasing the pain and damage, so I had to stop taking it. But I feel a lot better. Not like, pain free, but like I did before I started taking it. It's a huge relief."

"I feel . . ." Kris said. "I feel that it's not just a relief. It's another reminder, is it not?"

Ian nodded. "Yeah, yes, it is. A reminder that I'm-" He couldn't complete the sentence, but the word echoed in his skull. Dying. It seemed so close, yet so far at the same time.

"Ian." Kris said his name softly, and Ian looked up at comforting eyes. "Are you afraid?"

"Just as much as I was before." Ian admitted. "With the will. Stuff like this, they're reminders, and they're painful. But there's no avoiding them."

Kris nodded, understanding the young man perfectly. "Good, Ian. There's no shame in fear. If you ever need a friend-"

"I have your number." Ian finished with a small laugh.

Kris chuckled, then looked at him seriously. "I'm glad your liver damage isn't too serious, Ian. Though it's horrific that we will be losing you in such a short time, the later date due to cancer is preferred over the earlier date due to complications."

And the two sat in silent agreement.

***

"Aaaaaaaand we're gonna open up some mail." 

"Great, I can get paper cuts! Yaaay!"

Ian joined in on Anthony's yay, and they stood still for a moment, waiting to see who would end first, and after Anthony begrudgingly took a deep breath and giggled, the two sat down to open some mail.

"Ew, Canada."

"A package from Canada? Must be a polar bear."

"A polar bear who gave us some candy! Look, you got Smarties, and some weird gummy thing."

"Ah, man, nothing better than a weird gummy thing."

"Put it to the side, you can do an Ian is Bored with that."

 Ian obeyed and put the candy in a pile, just as he would do with the other food they sent, but later, he would throw it all away, claiming it to be an accident, instead of admitting the truth. He was now extremely conscious about what he put into his body, even more so because of his liver, and he would not risk eating the foreign food. This theme of caution continued throughout the week, as he washed his hands in a fit of paranoia before each meal, sometimes just at random, in fear of touching his mouth and giving himself some sort of bacterial disease.

At lunch with Anthony, he washed his hands before digging into his Burger King, at which Anthony laughed.

"Look at you washing your hands." Anthony laughed while holding the camera. "You're becoming so refined."

"Why, yes, sir, indeed I am." Ian faked an awful posh accent.

"No, really, you are, I mean, I haven't been able to point out the three things on the table to our fans anymore, you don't leave anything out!" Anthony was laughing, and Ian chuckled uneasily as he sat down. The three random items weren't out as often because he was always sick, or cleaning. He didn't have time to do anything random when he was alone, and he cleaned the house well enough so there wasn't anything random left out.

"And you're not as fidgety any more. You can finally sit still." Anthony was laughing still, but Ian could see a look of concern in his friend's eyes. He played it off casually, moving the conversation forward instead of admitting why he was doing all those things. In truth, Ian was always tired, and his body was weak. He just wasn't up to being all he was before.

Later, as he lied on the bathroom floor, whole body aflame, he knew he couldn't be the exact person he was before he got cancer, he couldn't even pretend to be. But he would not be giving his secret away now -- of that, he was certain.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Ian entered therapy Monday afternoon, pleased when he saw Kris in his usual chair. He sat down in his own seat when Kris beckoned him in, and greeted the old man.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Hello, Ian. How are you? Or, how is your condition, I mean."

Ian nodded. "The same. Not much has changed, physically."

"And mentally?" Kris questioned.

"I have been thinking about something." Ian scratched the ever-present stubble on his chin. "It's kind of important, I think."

"Okay, let's hear it." Kris leaned forward in his seat in rapt attention.

"I've done some cleaning, just because I don't want there to be too much stuff left when I'm gone." Ian began, but Kris interrupted out of curiosity.

"You don't want your family going through your things when you're gone?" Kris raised an eyebrow, evaluating the young man's psyche.

"No, it's not that, it's -- I just don't want them to be too burdened. I'm not throwing everything away, I just want to clear most of it out for them." Ian explained, slightly strained at the thought of his friends and family cleaning up after his death.

Kris nodded, and sat silent for a moment. Ian took several deep breaths, gathering the strength to continue.

"Anyway, I want to start some real, major cleaning. I haven't done much so far, and I think it's best to start now, because I don't know how I'll be in a month or two, how my health will be."

Kris nodded again. "I think that's a wise decision, Ian. I also find it quite respectable that you want to help your family like that, decrease the pain a bit. It's very responsible on your part."

"Thank you." Ian said, trying not to make it as big of a deal as it was. He didn't want to think of how big, how daunting, the life in front of him was, not at that moment, for he was not yet ready to face the thought of them; friends, family, Anthony, even Mel, knowing him to be dead and gone, but he not knowing their reactions.

***

Ian spent the entirety of his time that week filming, editing, or cleaning. On Tuesday, he attacked his drawers and closet, and Wednesday, searched for any clothing in the other rooms that belonged to him. He found some, and a few articles Anthony left behind, which he folded and placed in the hall closet next to the shoes, along with a note reading "Anthony, you left some clothes and shoes behind. They're clean and folded -- Ian." The note was left blank of emotion, just in case Anthony found it before Ian passed on. He would not want his secret disease revealed because of a note on some shoes.

Thursday, he spent much of his day editing, and even more so on Friday, but upon choosing small objects on top of his dresser to throw away, he stopped, gave the caged Charlie a smile, and promised him a bath tomorrow.

Saturday, he woke up just past three in the morning, sick to his stomach once again, and spent a few hours migrating from the bathroom to his bed, insides writhing in pain. At six, he took a shower, and when he got out, decided to clean Charlie, knowing he had to film later that day.

He took his old friend to the sink, petting his back lightly. "Gonna give you a bath, Charlie."

"Fuck you and your baths." He answered himself in Charlie's voice, after being pained by the moment of silence. He chuckled half-heartedly under his breath, and was reminded of telling Charlie he had cancer as he ran the tap. Placing the rodent in the sink, he began a gentle bath.

"Gonna clean you up real nice, Charlie, there's a boy." Ian smiled when Charlie made an attempt to escape the sink, slipping and failing miserably. He rubbed some shampoo onto the pet's back.

"You know, the first person I told was that insurance woman, Linda." Ian said quietly. "But that was just business. You were the first person -- animal -- who I told, who mattered to me. Almost the only one, really." The only other true friend who knew was Kris, but he found out by way of business.

He smiled at the naïve animal as he rinsed his fur. He was silent as he dried him, brushed him, and clipped his nails. Charlie stood, nose twitching, on his little towel, and Ian sighed.

"Don't worry, Charlie, I'll make sure someone takes care of you when I'm gone. I promise." He returned Charlie to his cage in silence. It wasn't time for a final goodbye to his furry friend. Not yet.

***

Ian found himself passing great wooden doors, once again. The usual old women surrounded the deacon, Tim Franklin, who stood tall and regal as always. He shuffled cautiously to the man. There had not been one time in this old church when his emotions did not sway dangerously, and he just wanted to drop off his donation and leave in peace.

"Hello, Ian." The deacon recognized him. "What is that you have with you, another donation?"

Ian felt the eyes of the charity-loving old women turn to him. He nodded quickly. "Just some old clothes, books, maybe like a knick-knack or two." He nervously handed his bag to an old woman who had raced towards him, and she sped back to her pack to examine the goods.

"Thank you, Ian." The deacon, for a moment, seemed to have nothing more to say, so Ian turned to exit, but he took a breath and spoke again. "I'm not really sure why you've been donating these things, but I'd like you to know that I'm, rather, we are, very grateful."

Ian nodded stiffly, anxious to leave.

"May I ask, Ian, why you are donating all of these things?" The deacon asked kindly, in hope of clearing some of the confusion in his mind surrounding this random young man. Ian felt an odd pull inside him, behind his navel, and thought foolishly of a portkey from Harry Potter before realizing it was an actual desire to tell the deacon. He struggled with that desire for a brief moment, the smallest of wars waging in his head, before turning back to Franklin, and answering.

"Just being charitable." He kept his voice dull and void of emotion. Ian could tell the deacon was not convinced, but the man only nodded.

"Thank you." He said once more, sincere as always. Ian nodded respectfully, turned again, and left, again dissatisfied with the mass of emotions weighing down on him.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit gets crazy

Ian sat patiently in the waiting room, a calm silence surrounding him as he waited for the clock to read three, and Ruby's nasal voice to call him in. He had worked past his experience with Deacon Franklin the day previous, and was now ready to have a normal session with Kris.

At three, Ruby called his name as usual, and he gave her the usual respectful nod as he crossed the waiting room to enter his doctor's office. What he found, however, was out of the ordinary.

"Hello, Ian!" Kris boomed, standing in front of his chair. On the coffee table beside him, an array of food sat on a serving platter, which Ian gave a questioning look before shaking Kris' hand. "You're probably wondering why all this is here." Kris said with a broad smile as they sat down.

"Kind of, yeah. Are you having company?" Ian took a guess.

Kris laughed lightly and shook his head. "I know you've had to start eating healthy since you fell ill, so I decided to get us a nice snack while we talk! I want a nice, relaxed session today."

"Fine by me." Ian smiled, relieved. He examined the fruits, crackers, and dark chocolate resting on the dish before asking Kris, "So what are we discussing today?"

"Food first." Kris smiled, and Ian could tell the man was a fan of cuisine. He selected a cracker, and Ian picked up a piece of dark chocolate, uncertain his stomach would take it, but having heard how healthy dark chocolate was compared to milk, felt his odds of intestinal uproar were minimal.

"I figure today we'll talk about something that interests you." Kris said after a minute of silent, albeit pleased, crunching. "What is something you don't really talk about, but you find interesting?"

"Oh, wow." Ian began, reaching for an apple slice. "I don't know, that's a hard one. What interests you?"

"No, no." Kris chuckled. "We're here for you. We'll be discussing your interests." He selected another cracker as Ian thought of what interested him.

"Well, I'm not sure if this counts . . ." Ian said, slow with uncertainty. "But people interest me. Like, all kinds of people, and everything they do, it's all just so interesting to me, I can't learn enough about people."

Kris hummed and selected a grape. "May I ask you to explain further, Ian? What part of 'people' interests you? Culture and society? Behavior and psychology?"

"Doesn't behavior and psychology stem from culture and society?" Ian said smartly, and Kris looked impressed. "I like it all. I think culture's really cool, to learn about, I mean."

"Yes, culture is good fun, especially when you see how many different cultures there are. How is your food, by the way?" Kris looked pleased with his delicious platter and intelligent conversation.

"Great." Ian assured him, picking a few grapes and resisting the urge to toss them into his mouth.

"Good, yes, this is quite the treat." Kris said before continuing. "Anyway, there are quite a few different cultures, many just here in California."

"Oh, yeah, and so many people don't realize it." Ian agreed. "People from other states, they think we're all from Hollywood, they don't know that we have farms, vineyards, and just suburbs like the rest of them."

Kris nodded, and there was a comfortable lull in the conversation as they both snacked on crackers. He swallowed and addressed Ian once more. "Did you know that there's a tribe in Africa that uses clicking in their language?"

Ian nodded. "Did you know there's a sect of Christianity in Venezuela that practices blood sacrifices?"

"I did not." Kris answered, impressed, and took a strawberry from the plate. The small mountain of food was shrinking now. "What about society, Ian, how do you feel about that?"

"Society . . ." Ian pondered as he nibbled on a slice of dark chocolate, a rare treat for him. "Sometimes, it's pretty -- pretty bad. In my opinion."

Kris slowly nodded. "How do you view society?"

"What do you mean?" Ian asked after a moment of confusion.

"There was a president, Mr. Wilson, who firmly believed in viewing society as an organism instead of a crowd: view it as a singular entity. His decisions in office were based off of this thought -- he worked for the good of the entity, not just one group or another." Kris explained, showing how scholarly he really was.

Ian considered this carefully. "That seems like a smart way to do it, if you don't care about class or gender or whatever. For me, though, when I work on Smosh, I focus on pleasing our age group, while trying to keep fans who are growing up. But like, in real life, I mean, when I'm just doing normal things, I'd want them all happy."

"Happy, or receiving what's best for them?" Kris asked, after swallowing another grape.

"What's best." Ian answered immediately. "Even if they don't like it. If it all works out in the end, that's what's important."

For a moment, the room was quiet, as Ian examined the globe resting beside the platter on the table, and Kris looked over Ian's shoulder at the wall, lost in thought. He was brought back to Earth when Ian spoke again suddenly.

"I think we forget how many people there are." Ian turned to him, with a look that begged him to understand his words. When Kris only gave him a curious look, he spoke further. "There's almost seven billion of us, all with different cultures, different opinions. And usually we don't even care."

"That's primal." Kris nodded. "It's important to care about yourself, to stay protected. Yourself and the pack, I mean."

"The pack being family and friends, I assume." Kris nodded again, and Ian fell silent for a moment, not sure how to form his next thought. "I'm not standing on a soap box, crying out how we should all love each other and there should be no greed or conflict. It's just interesting to me, that so many people are doing so many things right now. A mom's going grocery shopping. A man's becoming a father. A kid in Italy is sleeping, a guy in New Zealand is hunting. That's insane."

"Does that make you feel small, Ian? Unimportant? It would for most." Kris said wisely.

"Ignorance is bliss for them." Ian sighed, then answered his question. "I remember there was this quote we had to write an essay on in high school, from Ghandi-"

"Whatever you do is insignificant, but it is very important that you do it." Kris recited the quote. It was one of his favorites, so he knew it by heart.

"Yeah. I agree with that. I might be small in the grand scheme of things. But I'm a person, with a life. It's important that I live it. Whether I'm a lazy bum or I'm working on set, life is precious. It's a beautiful experience, good or bad."

Kris nodded, then looked at the time on his watch. "This has been a very scholarly session, Ian."

"Yeah." Ian picked the last grape from the small vine resting on the platter. At this point, most of the food was gone, and each man had a pleasant fullness in his gut. "I could talk about strangers all day."

"As could I." Kris stated, and the two spent several more minutes discussing cultures, so many, all great, from those including apartments to those including tribes, before Ian shook the man's hand and left, thanking him for a wonderful snack that they'd nearly devoured completely.

***

Mailtime was filmed normally, with Ian in pain but pretending to be alright, and Anthony oblivious as usual. He was ill before bed, and stayed up late forcing the chocolate from earlier from his body (although a small quantity of the extremely dark stuff was fine to his temperamental stomach, he chose to be extremely cautious in the future anyway). He finally settled in around one, and woke up early the next day to film.

Filming seemed average on Tuesday -- Ian laughed with Anthony, being able to nearly forget his pain, while still really feeling the devastating effects of cancer. But Ian found himself in a cloud, feeling light-headed all day. He felt stiff and numb, and could barely communicate with everyone else. No one noticed, but when Anthony gave him a funny look, Ian made a quick joke about his ADHD and the whole crew laughed.

Overall, Ian was unsettled about how light-headed he'd felt, but pushed forward, only hoping for the best for Wednesday's filming. He received the opposite.

***

It was around two when Ian was waiting for the filming to continue. They had paused a moment, after filming since noon, and Ian was standing next to his couch, barely aware of his surroundings. Anthony, he knew, was near the front door, far away from him, but that was all he knew. He'd never been so light-headed in his life.

When it happened, the crew was just acting as always -- casual, but still dependable, a great filming team and a nice group of men. Anthony had just been on the other side of the room, discussing the movements he would be doing in the scene they were about to perform with a camera man, when Ian's world became dark and blurred. Weak and unfeeling, he fell.

A crew member called out to him, and Anthony turned around, and felt as though the world had gone into slow motion. Several men were already moving towards Ian, who was barely visible to him on the ground. Panic flooded him, and he yelled his best friend's name as he ran towards him.

Ian had suddenly found himself at an odd angle, wondering how he had gone from standing straight to lying on the ground. He saw dark blurs and shapes above him, nothing truly registering until he felt large hands, one on his chest, one on his arm, shaking him, the owner of said hands calling out to him. And then he felt very sick.

Anthony, seeing the look on his friend's barely conscious face, yelled over his shoulder to a crew member, hands still on Ian's chest and arm. "Get a bucket!" But his efforts came too late, and Ian used the little strength he had to turn slightly on his side and vomit. Anthony removed his hands from his friend's body, shock attacking him as he saw the blood and bile fall from Ian's choking mouth. The blood dripped onto the carpet, violently red, and Ian fell on his back once more.

"Okay." Ian could barely hear his friend's shaking voice attempting to take control of the situation. "Okay. You, help me, let's get him to the car."

Anthony stooped over Ian and grabbed him by the arms, while a more burley crew member grabbed his legs. Ian floated in and out of consciousness, only coherent thought being that since he started losing weight from cancer, Anthony could probably carry him on his own. As everything faded away, he only hoped Anthony wouldn't notice.

It had been a struggle getting him into the car, but Ian finally rested in the passenger seat, blood on his chin and soiling his shirt, and Anthony's shaking hand was twisting the keys in the ignition. He, in his panic, had not noticed how light Ian was, thoughts flying and filling his head with random gibberish that he would not dare decipher. 

"Okay." Anthony let out a shaky breath, trying to calm his nerves as his knuckles turned white from clenching the steering wheel. "Ian? Ian, can you hear me?" Ian was barely there, but managed to open his eyes slightly. He saw rainclouds through the dashboard, heard his terrified friend. "I'm gonna take you to the hospital, okay, Ian? Just stay awake, just focus, please Ian."

Ian drifted in and out of consciousness during their ride to the hospital, so he didn't hear all of it. He didn't hear all of Anthony talking to him, sometimes in a low voice, sometimes whining, sometimes in a scream, but always with an edge of panic in his voice. He didn't hear Anthony begging him to stay awake, to please be okay, please live, please don't vomit blood again, please let things be how they were. Please, Anthony would scream, whisper, cry. Please don't leave me, Ian.

And Ian could barely hear it.

***

He woke up to a blinding white. Dazed and confused, he let the white startle him for several moments longer before finally pushing himself to awaken fully, attempting to quickly sit up, but realizing he was cold and weak, settling back again. Looking around the room as his eyes became adjusted to the bright light, he saw some chairs, a bedside table, and finally his own attire, a thin paper gown, his body covered in white sheets on a hard mattress. He groaned when he remembered what had happened.

He fainted on set, and then woke up just long enough to vomit. Blood, too, all over the floor. And Anthony took him to the hospital. He could only imagine how he was going to explain this. It looked to him as if the act was over.

Doctor Marrow suddenly stepped into the room, and Ian looked into the man's eyes for a moment, seeing them filled with concern, but the pain of it was too much for the good doctor, and he stared at a spot on the wall just behind his patient.

"So your friend told a nurse that you fainted and threw up blood." Panic floored Ian.

"Did you tell him?"

"No." Marrow shook his head, and Ian's body relaxed in his relief. "Doctor-patient confidentiality."

Ian bit his lip. "So I fainted, and threw up blood. How bad is it?"

Marrow shook his head once more. "You're not dying sooner, there's the good news. But the cancer's spreading, just as you saw on your x-ray during your last visit. It's weakening you."

Ian stared at him for a moment, recalling seeing his tumor-spotted x-ray after having his MRI. "I fainted because the cancer just made me weak?" Marrow nodded.

"And I threw up blood because . . . ?" Marrow shifted uncomfortably.

"Did you wake up with a very slight nosebleed? You may have not even noticed it." He pulled a tissue from his pocket and stepped over to the bed, handing it to his patient. Ian blew his nose, and did indeed see red. "That's good news, it means the blood drained back in your sleep, so it's not an ulcer, which we don't want." Ian figured this, too, was a side effect of cancer, and took a breath before asking his next question.

 "I still have time?" Marrow nodded once more, eyes away from Ian's at all times.

"You should be fine, given the circumstances. I just want to give you a physical before you leave. If you can follow me, then we'll begin." Relieved, Ian started climbing from the bed, untwisting himself from the stiff sheets, slightly embarrassed at the amount of his body visible in his hospital gown.

Marrow moved quickly to a chair, and lifted some thin cotton sweat pants and a matching button-up shirt, both a sickly cream color. "You may change into your normal attire after the physical." He said, and added with a flinch, "I don't think that blood will be coming out."

Ian nodded, and took a moment to mourn the loss of his Cookie Monster shirt as he changed into the hospital outfit. He then followed Marrow down a white hallway, into a room to take his physical.

***

The physical was fairly quick, only consisting of some stretching exercises, deep breathing, and some time on a bike machine, which Ian found incredibly difficult, but Marrow claimed he was doing excellently for his condition. He soon returned to the room he woke up in, displeased at more white walls, and changed quickly into his original clothing, zipping his jacket to hide the blood stain. His shirt had been ruined, but the blood was barely noticeable on his black jacket, and he could only hope the small stain residing would fade or disappear completely. He stepped out of the room in a rush, wanting to escape the hospital that only reminded him of his impending death, but Marrow halted him.

"Mr. Hecox, I find it usually best to remain out of my patient's affairs, but I'd like you to know that your friend is in the waiting room for you."

Ian stared at him, perplexed, then checked the time on a white clock placed high on the wall behind him. "But it's almost five thirty."

"He was very concerned when he brought you in." Marrow commented, giving Ian an almost knowing glance. "I know you said you didn't want your friend finding out, and that's not my usual area to intervene, but . . . you can tell him you have low blood pressure."

Ian nodded blankly. Half of him couldn't believe Anthony had been in a waiting room that long, while the other half wasn't surprised at all, knowing how much his friend cared for him. "Thanks."

"I'll even write out a fake prescription for you, just to show him. The meds aren't real, so they'll turn you down at every pharmacy, so I'd just throw the slip away when I got home if I were you." Marrow grimaced, almost an uncomfortable smile, as he wrote the prescription on a pad he'd produced from his pocket, then ripped the page off and handed it to Ian. Ian noticed he'd only seen hard, fake smiles from the doctor thus far, but figured it must've been a bit depressing to spend your days with the dead and dying, white walls aching your head, knocking at your eyes, feeding on your brain.

Ian parted ways with Marrow and took a short walk from the hallway to the hospital's waiting room, where he saw Anthony, almost alone in the waiting room, drowsy in a chair. The sun was hanging low in the sky, and at first Anthony didn't notice his friend emerge from the hallway, but as Ian stepped closer, he fully awakened immediately and sat up fully in his chair, facing his friend with unmeasurable amounts of concern on his face.

"Ian, are you okay?" He asked immediately, eyes darting as he examined his friend's entire body. Ian felt an odd mix of emotions; concern for Anthony's own mind, warmth over their friendship, and fear over the lies he would be telling his friend, fear for the life that lay ahead of them.

"Yeah." He answered softer than usual, tired and wanting to be gentle, unsure of his friend's emotional state. He cleared his throat and spoke slightly louder, although still not in his normal tone. "I'm fine."

"What happened?" Anthony's eyes were now searching his face, looking for reassurance that all that he begged for in the ride to the hospital would be given to him.

"I have low blood pressure." Ian said with a weary look. "A doctor gave me a prescription, I just have to take a pill a day, and I'll be pretty much normal. I might be tired sometimes, but I'm healthy."

Ian never saw more worry and more relief clash at once. Anthony smiled, but kept strained, eyeing Ian as is staring would cure his ailing friend, then looked down at his lap, emotions overcoming him. Ian again realized how concerned his friend was for him.

"Dude, when you fainted-" Anthony began as though in attempt to perform a speech, one of love and emotion, but sucked in a breath quickly. He looked back up at Ian, whose face only showed mild concern. "I'm so glad you're okay." Tears sparkled in his red-rimmed eyes. "I can't imagine life without you."

Ian only nodded and took his friend silently to the car, tired but feeling more emotions than he'd ever experienced. He was concerned for his friend, scared for his health, scared someone would figure out his lie, relieved everything was alright, apprehensive of a future he could not stop, and guilty, so guilty, after hearing Anthony's words. "I can't imagine life without you." and here he was, getting ready to leave him, getting ready to die and scare him just as much as he had today, and he did it silently, he still didn't tell his friend he had cancer. 

Ian thought back to the hazy drive to the hospital. Anthony was crying, and begging for him to be alright. He'd barely been awake, but he knew that much. Anthony was scared and in pain, and he'd feel the same way in just over a month. But he couldn't tell him, he couldn't ruin the last days of his life like that. What Ian had seen that day was something he never wanted to see again. He couldn't bear Anthony's pain. 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #fillerchapter amiright lmao

Ian slept fitfully that night, despite his exhaustion. He was sick, and worried, but only wanted to focus on regaining some normalcy in his pretend life, the life of the Ian Hecox without cancer, with just some blood pressure problems.

Thursday morning brought a time of rest for Ian's body, but not for his mind. The day started with vomiting, then some water and oatmeal, then a phone call from Anthony just before his shower.

"Hey, Anthony." he listened carefully for his friend's tone.

"Hey, Ian, how are you feeling?" Anthony sounded upset, concerned, as if he yearned to reach through the phone and see his friend in person and verify his well being.

"Better, thanks." Ian said, hearing his friend's concern, and feeling both guilt at causing him pain, and relief at not telling him he had cancer, which would only pain him further.

"Good. I called the guys, let them know you're okay. Still up for lunch later?" Anthony asked, hopeful.

"Yeah, totally." Ian said, in a normal, upbeat tone, attempting to make things feel normal for Anthony. "But, um, I have to eat healthy now. So no junk food." He added quickly.

"Aw, man, that sucks." Anthony already sounded more like himself. "Okay, yeah, we'll go to that organic place this afternoon. It'll be cool."

"Fine by me." Ian said, pleased at how normal things were sounding.

"We'll film again tomorrow, okay? And I'll do some extra editing."

"Oh, dude, you don't have to-"

"Aaand," Anthony began loudly, interrupting his friend, then changing his tone to one of business, but laced with concern. "I was thinking maybe we should think about not doing Vidcon this year. I mean, it's pretty hectic, I don't know if you can handle it."

Ian thought a moment. Vidcon was the 27th of June, and he was supposed to pass on around the 18th. He would either be dead, or on his deathbed. He sighed and answered after a moment's silence. "I don't know, man, let's talk about it later."

"Okay, see you at two." Anthony hung up, and Ian was left with a few hours by himself, able to rest and relax, but he instead thought of Anthony. He hoped his friend was adjusting to what had happened, and wasn't quite returning to how his life was, but still managing and moving on.

***

Anthony looked normal when Ian let him in some hours later, if not slightly more silent than usual. Ian acted as ordinary as he could, and was about to get the camera when Anthony stopped him.

"Ian, wait, we have to talk about Vidcon." Anthony stood in the living room, and Ian returned to the doorway and leaned awkwardly against the wall.

"Yeah." he said softly, not sure what to say.

"I know we do it every year, but I don't want to put you in a situation you can't handle." Anthony said, smart and concerned.

"Well I just found out I have low blood pressure yesterday, so we have no idea if I can handle it or not." Ian lied. He knew that if he were still alive by then, he wouldn't be able to take such demanding conditions, but he didn't want to give in immediately and draw suspicion from Anthony. 

"Yeah, but, today's May third, and we have to confirm by June first, so we should at least talk about it before then." Anthony stated rationally. "Do you think that, by then, you'd be able to do it?"

Ian pretended to think for a moment, then honestly shook his head. "Maybe just you could go." Ian suggested, but this actually sounded like a terrible idea. He couldn't bear the thought of dying when Anthony wasn't there, or having his grief-stricken friend present at the event without him.

"I can't go on my own." Anthony protested, with what was almost a whine. "It wouldn't be right. All or none."

"Okay." Ian put his hand on his chin, pretending to think about the situation, like quite the good liar. "I'll think about it, and let you know before the end of the month."

"Okay." Anthony said, respecting the decision. "Now go get the camera, I'll drive."

Ian got the camera, and they got in Anthony's car, driving to the healthy food store and avoiding the memory of their last time in that car, a silent trip home from the hospital the previous day.

"So normally, we go out and get the most greasy, disgusting food we can find." Anthony said to the camera, smiling. "But today, we're gonna get something actually healthy."

"It may be a shock to our systems." Ian said to the camera.

"Seeing as I haven't eaten anything green in like, four years, yeah, probably." Anthony said comically, then softened his tone. "Should we tell them why . . ."

Ian answered the unfinished question. "We can give them, like, a simple explanation, let's not, uh, tell them everything."

Anthony nodded and returned to a casual voice. "You're probably wondering why we're eating healthy now, and it's because Ian has a problem with low blood pressure, so we're gonna try not to accidentally kill him."

"That would be a nice thing to avoid." Ian added.

"And I don't want to see you blood spattered again." Anthony said, making a usual grossed out face, but eyes brimmed with concern all the same.

Ian looked into them a moment, pained, before responding. "I won't be randomly barfing blood, ya know, I got a nose bleed the night before." 

"A nose bleed?" Anthony looked confused.

"Yeah, all the blood just drained back-"

"Ew, Ian!" Anthony looked truly disgusted now. "Hearing about your bodily functions is like watching The Human Centipede." Ian laughed and made a mental note to make that the cold opening.

When they arrived at the health market, Anthony looked around, totally lost, and Ian pretended he was as well. He had of course been getting food from there for weeks, but wasn't about to admit that.

"Okay, let's get something we don't have to cook, because screw that." Anthony said slightly too loudly, and he received an odd look from a middle aged woman passing by.

"She was totally checking you out." Ian said with a creepy grin, and Anthony gave the camera a seductive look.

"It's my sweet moves. They get all the ladies." Anthony nearly licked the camera, and they both laughed loudly.

They eventually decided to have sandwiches, and bought a basket full of ingredients, including whole wheat bread, a massive amount of cold cuts, various cheeses, lettuce, and all the toppings one could imagine, before driving home and holding a sandwich competition on the kitchen counter. They actually both had a lot of fun, taking one minute to attempt to make the best sandwich.

"In three, two, one, go!" Ian yelled, and he and Anthony both started throwing together sandwiches. Curses and laughter rung in the air, and after a minute's time, they stopped, and judged.

"Mine's way meatier, I think I win." Anthony said, face flushed and full of pride.

"That's what she said." Ian laughed, then shook his head at his own sandwich. "I went a little overboard with the lettuce." lettuce was piled high on his own lunch.

Anthony laughed and was declared the winner, and they settled down and ate, happy and casual.

"Anthony, what would you rate this meal?" Ian asked, after they finished their food. 

"I would rate my award winning, delicious, perfect in every way sandwich...One hundred out of one hundred Olympic medals."

"Because sandwich making is an Olympic event now." Ian laughed. "see you next Thursday."

"Bitch." Anthony added, and they switched off the camera. "I'll edit this one, Ian, you relax."

"No, you don't have t-"

"Too bad, now just sit down and watch some T.V." Anthony told him, with a concerned smile and serious tone, and Ian did so, defeated. The sandwich still hurt his stomach, but it wasn't as bad as eating fast food.

Anthony edited quickly, then lingered and watched some television with Ian, despite needing to get home to Kalel before dinner. He stood silently next to his friend, hand on his shoulder, pretending to watch the screen, but his eyes flickering to Ian the entire time in concern. After a short time, Kalel finally called him, worried, and Anthony silently left. Ian sighed when he was gone, and pulled himself weakly to bed. He knew that Anthony was concerned, but he was aware that things were soon returning to normal.

Friday and the weekend brought filming back to Ian's home, and although the crew was awkward and nervous, after awhile things relaxed. Everyone was more careful around Ian, skittering around him, but Ian knew everything would fix itself: and if not, then it was not catastrophic enough to destroy their world.

***

"Hello, Ian, how are you?" Kris was smiling, warm as usual, and offered Ian a seat in one of the comfortable chairs on that beautiful Monday afternoon. The weather was more and more gorgeous every day.

"I'm okay." Ian said as he sat in the chair. While the weather was making Kris lighter, Ian was still weighed down. "But not really. I had . . . an incident."

"Oh? What's happened?" Kris leaned forward, care for the young man shining in his eyes.

Ian sighed. "I fainted on set Wednesday." 

After Kris leaned forward, terror mixing with the care in his eyes, Ian told him everything, in horrid detail. He vividly described the blackness, the loss of sight, the vomit, the blood on his shirt. He described Anthony crying, taking him to the hospital, falling asleep after waiting nearly three hours for him. He told him every awful detail, unable to stop, even as his throat went dry and face went wet with tears.

When Ian finished explaining what had happened that day, Kris stared at him, disturbed. He knew his patient was dying, but had attached to him, and would soon find himself losing a new-found friend. A young man cut down before he had a chance to live, and here this old man had to watch, had to remember how much death can hurt. He drew in his breath as Ian wiped away tears with a tissue, and pushed his disturbance to the back of his mind.

"And how are Anthony and the crew treating you now?" Kris asked finally, voice only slightly shaking.

"Better." Ian said, nodding as if thanking the man for listening. "The crew started out pretty awkwardly, and they were really careful around me, but it's been getting back to normal. Like, only a little, but I'm sure it's gonna be fine."

"And Anthony?"

Ian sighed. "Anthony . . . he loves me. He cares about me a lot, and wants to make sure I'm okay. He's protective now, but it'll get back -- almost get back -- to the way things were."

"And are you okay with that?" Kris raised a brow.

"Yes." Ian answered quickly. "Things aren't gonna be the way they were, but they're still gonna be okay. That's all I can ask for."

Kris looked at him oddly, the increasing presence of death fogging his head and making everything distorted and unclear. "And how has actually fainting affected you, Ian?"

"It scared me." Ian admitted. "It reminded me again, how close it is. It's a new event every time, bigger every time, and all of these events just scream in my face, 'hey, you're terminal!'' He sighed. "Another damn step. And all I can do is accept it."

Silence reverberated as Kris could only nod in agreement. When Ian left the office, clouds hung low in the sky. The weather was ruined.

 


	21. Chapter 21

Tuesday came, and so did the crew, filming at Ian's house. They appeared as they were before: cautious around Ian, but nearly normal. Anthony was recovering, too, and didn't dedicate most of the week to having his eyes glued to his friend.

As for Ian, the week was tolerable, but he was still week and nauseous. He spent his time on set acting as if he was fine, just as he'd done for months, but he could be less vigilant now, and if he looked tired, the crew would understand. Or, at least, think they did.

When Ian was alone, he cleaned. He emptied closets, looked between the couch cushions (finding several small knick-knacks and about fifteen dollars in change), emptied out the liquor cabinet that had been untouched since New Year's, and selected some things to donate to the church. Most of what he'd planned on donating were some of his own books, including some of the Harry Potter novels, some old textbooks and a few books he'd read for school, like  Lord of the Flies and  Night . He also included some of the toys that they'd received over the years from Mailtime, but only those in good condition.

On Sunday, Ian woke up early, as usual, to find himself ill in the bathroom. In his shower following this, he mentally prepared himself to return to the church once again. Every time he was there, his emotions ran wild, and he wished that he could contain them this time.

Driving to the church, he found the usual large amount of cars leaving, full of pastel clothing, large hats, and elderly women, whom Ian could hear complaining about the heat from his open car window. He shook his head and laughed lightly. It was only May 13th, and these women were complaining about a heat that would be far worse in August, a heat Ian would not have the chance to feel.

He saw what he always saw: giant wooden doors, simple but elegant white walls, organs on either side and old women skittering about, all minor details compared to the regality that shone from Deacon Franklin in the center of the large room. Ian approached him, nervous as to how his feelings would be manipulated this visit, and cleared his throat.

"Oh, hello, Ian." Deacon Franklin turned and smiled. "How are you on this lovely morning?"

"Great." Ian lied nervously. "I have some stuff to donate." He handed his black bag of donations to the deacon as the usual flock of old women surrounded them.

"Good, thank you." The deacon smiled, pleased, and opened the bag. Looking back up, he added distractedly, "Have a good day, may God bless you."

"You too." Said Ian, slightly startled, but turned and left. He felt satisfaction as he returned to his car: he was only in the church for a minute, and he finally didn't feel awful after a visit. Lightened, he turned on the radio on his journey home, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel. For a moment, he was pleased with his situation, but of course he would lose the feeling later, the knowledge of his impending death suppressing his joy once again.

***

Ian woke up on Monday feeling worse than he'd felt in days. It wasn't pain, but grogginess. He usually shot out of bed in the morning, to be sick or eat before his stomach expelled anything. Now, lying in bed, he found that it took almost all of his energy to drag himself to the bathroom. He spent the day in bed, head pounding, sinuses stuffed and aching. Looking at his phone's light had caused sparks behind his eyes, and he teared up in pain. Annoyed, he called Marrow.

"Hello, this is John Marrow speaking, how may I help you?"

"Grmmph." Ian moaned into the phone, attempting to compose himself. "Doctor Marrow, why . . .?" He asked, pained, then fell silent.

"Oh, Mr. Hecox. Feeling like you've just slept in the gutter?" Marrow asked cautiously.

Ian moaned in response, then scolded himself for not being polite. "Yes, sir."

"Blow your nose." Marrow directed in a business-like matter, his personal pain of dealing with a cancer patient keeping him from voicing emotion. "You must've had a nosebleed at night. Your body's not taking it well, you should be fine by tonight, just rest."

Marrow hung up, and Ian blew his nose, realizing he did have a nosebleed that night, as he saw red in the tissue. He sighed and leaned back onto his pillows, attempting to rest for a few hours.

At around two, he realized he still wasn't feeling well, so he pulled out his phone. As he dialed, the light from the screen hurt his head less, but he knew he could not make his therapy session.

"Ian, m'boy, why the phone call? Is something wrong?" Kris asked, picking up after a single ring. He had given Ian his personal number, just incase.

"Hey, Kris, I woke up with a nosebleed this morning, and my body's not taking it very well. Is it okay if I skip therapy today? I've been lying in bed, just, all day, I can't -- I can't go." Ian spoke softly, tears brimming his eyes as pain filled his head, and a drop of blood fell from his nose.

"Of course, m'boy, you just rest and take it easy. I'll see you next Monday." Kris said, voice full of understanding.

"I'm sorry, Kris." Ian muttered, sincerely apologetic. He enjoyed his weekly time with Kris.

"Don't be, son, it's not your fault." Kris comforted the sick young man. "Rest easy, now. Have a good day, and stay strong in these . . . final days."

"Thanks, you too." Ian mumbled and hung up. _Stay strong_. He thought of that for a moment, then, with great difficulty, pulled himself out of bed, and showered, no longer groaning or crying.

By the time Anthony arrived four hours later, Ian had managed to scrub himself clean, shake himself awake, and hold himself together long enough to seem alright. They filmed Mailtime with Smosh fairly normally, Anthony still concerned, but recovering.

When he left, Ian, who had held strong, breathed heavily, and found himself in bed early. He slept soundly throughout the night, in a thick and dreamless sleep, and woke up to vomit. This was a relief to him, however, as he woke up well rested, nose free of blood, and with a mind temporarily at ease.

***

Tuesday to Friday, the crew filmed normally, with the permanent need to be careful around Ian, although the need was decreasing for them. It would never fully vanish, but some of the men had started acting exactly as they used to, talking and laughing with Ian as though he'd never fainted. He found himself relieved that they were, because it was influencing Anthony to start acting as he used to with him as well. The concern still held clear presence on his face, but he was improving, and for that, Ian was thankful.

Although Ian was determined to clean during the week, he spent much of his time sleeping, exhausted after all of his work. On Saturday, however, when he was done filming, he took the time to cancel some of his subscriptions.

He started with the ones that came through the mail, sending the proper unsubscription forms to GQ magazine, and the catalogs that were sent to him from Adidas, American Eagle, Nike, the local sporting store, and a range of other companies. He drove the letters to the post office, dropping them off in the blue mail bin before driving home, as he was unable to send letters from his own small mail box.

When arriving home, he sat at the computer, going through his emails, and slowly unsubscribing to every annual message that was sent to him. Sears, his car repair place, all of his Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook and Youtube emails (but not his accounts), Pac Sun, and all the places they bought props from. He then deleted his entire inbox; messages from his sister in Pennsylvania, Mel when she was in New Jersey, old plans of videos from Anthony, and any other email, all deleted. He deleted the trash section as well. Inbox empty, and the only messages he would receive in the future being spam, Ian nodded to himself. The shock that should've come with preparing for his death like that was gone -- there was no mistaking how sure his death was now. It hung over him as he shuffled into bed, fatigue holding down his feet once again.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Ian had spent his Sunday warm and safe in bed, like he used to do in the winter when he was a child. But he was no longer a child, he was an adult, an adult closer to death than others. And it was no longer winter, that season Ian wasn't too fond of, but would still miss, but Spring. May 20th.

The next day, a warm, breezy Monday, Ian found himself up sick, then going for a jog, doing some yoga, having a shower, and drinking some water, all the while enjoying the picturesque weather. Although where he travelled to in the afternoon was shut away from such beautiful weather, he found himself still happy to be there. He sat in his familiar chair, next to the usual drawn curtains, and enjoyed their presence, when most would not. But he was fond of this room, and even more so of the company.

"Lovely day, don't you agree?" His company, in the form of a tender old man, voiced opinion from the chair across his.

He smiled and nodded. "Sometimes, there's nothing better than a California breeze." And it was true. He loved his state.

"I'd like to talk about stress today, Ian." Kris began, shuffling around in his seat. "Now, I haven't spoken with John -- Doctor Marrow -- since before I met you, but I understand that you could get an ulcer if you're overstressed."

"Yeah." Ian said, nearly forgetting Doctor Marrow's first name. His trepidation to bond with the pitying man caused him to avoid such human details. "Thankfully I've been managing it well, because I haven't gotten one."

"Now, an ulcer is a hole in your stomach, isn't it? So what happens if you do get one?" Kris asked.

"Normally, your stomach acid falls out and destroys a lot of your other organs." Ian said, recalling biology class. "But for me, I think it would be a lot worse. It would probably kill me."

Kris frowned. "And what are you doing to manage your stress?"

"I do yoga, because Marrow recommended it the second day I met with him." Ian recalled. "It really is calming. Way more calming than the wieght lifting I used to do before. And I drink plenty of water, eat healthy."

"Are you finding yourself stressed at work, though? I can imagine all you do for your job can be quite stressful." Kris said, and the pair both thought of the average day on set. Get up, get filming, edit all night, repeat.

"It is stressful." Ian admitted. "But I just keep myself calm. Editing all the time, and writing, and filming, it's intense, but I know the end product's gonna be good, if we work hard, use our talent. It's all worth it."

"But is the stress too much for you?" Kris asked, not wanting Ian's health affected by his work.

"Nah." Ian responded with a wave of his hand. "And even if it was before, Anthony's trying to keep me relaxed -- he does a little more editing than usual. Not, like, all of it, but still . . . it's really nice of him."

"Well, he thinks you have low blood pressure." Kris clarified. Ian nodded, and he continued. "So is keeping a secret like this affecting your stress levels?"

Ian licked his lips and considered this, answering after taking a heavy breath. "It does, actually, it stresses me out a lot. I'm always worried someone's gonna find out. Like Mom or Anthony." he considered this for the smallest moment before speaking again. "But I'd rather get stressed over that than tell them now. I mean, seeing them go through that, that would destroy me."

Kris sat for a moment, hand on his chin, studying Ian curiously. It was clear the thought of his family finding out he had cancer was far more stressful than actually hiding it. Ian sat quietly, fingers twisting in his lap, eyes fixed on the globe on the table, thinking of far away places he would never go. And it was too late, now. He made a decision, for his fans and for his family, and Kris knew the young man's promise to live with his secret, to live for his family as he did, was one he could not break.

Marrow had asked him, many months ago, to make sure Ian was alright with dying, to make sure he didn't lose his mind, and at first, both doctors were worried he had when he decided not to tell. But it was clear, for months it was clear, that Ian wasn't crazy: he was performing perhaps the most selfish, or the most selfless, act of all time.

He reached over, and placed a hand on Ian's arm. The boy visibly relaxed, and Kris held in a sigh. This young boy, who reminded him so much of himself, had so little time. He pushed that painful thought from his head, and for awhile, the pair sat in comfortable silence.

***

Ian was not thinking of his therapy session later, unlike the other member of the conversation, who thought about it after work, just before bed, with a headache and a glass of brandy. No, Ian focused instead upon bringing in a large amount of mail from his garage to the living room. He wanted to make sure he and Anthony finished up all the mail they got before he died, unable to consider what Anthony would do with it after. Still open it? Throw it away?

When Anthony arrived and they started filming, he pointed out the large amount of packages.

"Aw, dude, why is there so much mail here?" Anthony groaned as he sat down.

Ian shrugged. "Just because." 

Anthony smiled and shook his head, and they dug into the mail, having their usual fun.

"Guys, what did we say about moldy crap." Anthony looked at the camera, annoyed.

"We said send as much as possible." Ian nodded as Anthony turned the camera towards him. "Thanks for the moldy bread!"

"Power Rangers action figures." Anthony noted as he peered into a box.

"Erg." Ian made a surprised face. "How big can your vagina be?" He held up a (thankfully not used) tampon, and Anthony let out his signature laugh.

There was a lot of mail, but the time opening it up felt as usual, and by the time it was over, Ian felt happy and relaxed. As he waved goodbye to Anthony, he couldn't help the fond, fuzzy feeling in his chest. He really loved doing this. Cancer or not, these were times in his life he had to cherish. A bit more, now, because he was running out of time, but that knowledge could not bring too much stress to him. Ian went to bed with a smile.

***

The rest of the week was spent as it usually was; Ian acted normal with the crew, who were all adjusting to Ian's "low blood pressure" and starting to act as they always did, and then was sick or cleaning when they weren't around. On Wednesday he stacked up all of the video games he didn't play that often, and knew Anthony wouldn't want after he passed away. He found himself no longer playing at all, finding the games too stressful, but, wanting to seem normal, still kept a few around, to keep Anthony from getting suspicious. On Thursday, Ian went to his desk and packaged all of the office supplies he'd found when he was cleaning the other month. He assumed the church would find use for them. On Friday, he packed the last of his school books.

Sunday arrived, and Ian nervously put a box of video games and books in his passenger seat, then rested the box of office supplies on top. Although he found himself without emotional trauma the last time he was at the church, he was unsure of what today would bring.

Upon arriving at the church, Ian noticed it was less crowded than usual, the rain probably making the less regular attenders stay within the comfort of their beds. He braved it anyway, picking up the boxes from the passenger seat and heading inside, approaching the deacon.

"Hello, Ian, what do you have there?" Deacon Franklin turned from his quiet conversation with an old woman to him. Ian shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the boxes and the deacon noticed, lifting one and carrying it over to a pew. Ian followed and set the other down.

"I have some office supplies, I'm not sure if you need them." Ian said, motioning to the box and stretching his arms slightly.

"Yes, yes, we'll find use for these." The deacon nodded, and Ian could sense the elderly crowd start to gather.

"And I have some books, and video games, but I'm not sure if you need those either." He said quickly, wanting to leave the old women.

"No, we could use these, we could put them in our rec room at the local YMCA." The deacon nodded once again, and Ian felt relieved.

"Okay, I wasn't sure. Thanks."

"No, thank you, Ian, we're so grateful for every donation." Deacon Franklin bowed his head slightly with respect.

Ian gave him a small smile, and they said goodbye and parted ways. He was glad to help the less fortunate, while still clearing out enough of his own things to ease the work load for his family when he was gone. And as he left, he found himself satisfied, once again, that his emotions hadn't been destroyed in that white building, as they had just weeks ago.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl this is a pretty good chapter

Sometimes, he felt as though his illness defined him. When he was kneeling over a toilet, or lying weakly in bed. When he was canceling plans because he was sick, or when he couldn't finish his work without feeling so faint he could cry.

Other times, he felt as though he defined his illness. When he was laughing with Anthony. When he was talking to Kris. When he was cleaning his house and donating to the church. Because cancer could change him; it bent his body, pushed him physically and emotionally. But it could not alter his personality -- he was the same man inside as he'd been in January. No matter how hard the disease pushed him, made him feel awful, made him feel anything, it could not reach his soul, not bend him and break him in that final way.

His personality untouched, his soul intact, Ian found himself with a firm base of his own goodness, but layers and feelings not so deep found themselves disturbed. Because a perfect soul did not mean a perfect mind. Emotions, on a daily basis, stormed inside him, and while resulting from many different events, all were affected by his illness.

The emotion Ian focused on, as he sat in wait for his therapy session to begin, was sadness. For, as Ruby called him in with her usual nasal drawl, sadness cloaked him like dark, unwelcome clouds. His joy, his sunshine, peaked through as Kris gave him a warm, firm handshake and sat with him, but then the sadness settled once more.

But Ian's personality never tolerated such despair, and, unchanged by condition, attempted conversation to rid itself of the foul clouds.

"Good afternoon, Ian. How are you?" Kris asked with a cheery grin.

"Not well." Ian answered in a quiet tone, downtrodden.

"What's wrong, my boy?" Kris leaned forward in concern.

"I'm just" He hesitated. "My emotions are running wild. Particularly the not good ones."

"What do you mean?" Kris analyzed the young man, pale and thin.

"I mean, I know cancer's sad. Dying's sad. And that's how I feel -- miserable. Just miserable. I don't want to feel like this." Ian shook his head.

"You know, my boy, pain is inevitable. Unavoidable." Kris said, of which he knew from experience.

"I know." Ian said, and looked at the dark, drawn curtains. "But, in the beginning, I wanted things to be as normal as possible. I wanted to go out with a laugh. Now I just feel . . . defeated."

"Because you're sad?" Kris asked, incredulously. 

Ian was surprised at Kris' shock and nodded bashfully. 

"Ian, I've known you for some time now. And I know you are nowhere near being defeated. You're brave, and you're strong. You keep joy in your life even now. Cancer, and death, cannot defeat you." Kris explained to his young patient, his friend. 

Ian felt slightly better, and encouraged the warmth that Kris was casting to further penetrate his clouds of misery.

"Now, Ian, what's making you so upset right now? Is it because you know you're dying, or is it something else?" Kris gave him a gentle look of concern.

"I guess it's a lot of things." Ian said thoughtfully. "The whole situation; the sickness, the weakness, the dying, the lying, the loneliness. It's just overwhelming right now."

"Loneliness? Why do you feel lonely, my boy?" Kris raised his eyebrows slightly, a want for understanding his patient clear on his face.

"Because . . ." Ian considered how to put his feelings into words. "I'm either alone, or I'm in crowded rooms. And when I'm alone, it's like, sometimes it's a relief, so I can just be sick in private, but sometimes the sickness makes me alone. I can't do all of the things I used to. I can't hang out with my friends, I can't go to a gym, I can't eat out. It's not just me being at home sometimes -- it's a huge decrease in human interaction.

"And if that isn't bad enough, I spend so much time with Anthony, with the crew, and I have to hide all of this from them. I'm the only one who knows what's going on, I'm the only one who has this -- this countdown in my head. And I'm the only one in this crowded room who knows. I'm completely surrounded by these great guys, but I've never been more alone. It's . . . isolating." Ian drew a breath, finishing his thought.

Kris gave him a long, focused look, before scratching his chin and responding. "You don't have to hide everything from them, Ian. You can tell them whenever you like. But you said you didn't want to, so now you must either sacrifice, or continue with the lie. If this is your breaking point, that's just fine. If you can continue to live this way, however, you will still feel lonely. But, may I remind you, you aren't the only one who knows. You do have a friend here for you."

Ian stared at the old man for a moment, before giving him a weary smile. It was true. He had to sacrifice if he wanted to keep this secret, but he wasn't doing it alone. He had Kris, and he trusted this man more profoundly than any other human being he had ever known.

Kris returned the smile. "Have strength, my boy. Remember those who love you." And the pair nodded in silence.

***

Warmth engulfed him after the therapy session, and Ian spent the next two hours caught in both a cloud of sorrow, and a hot blast of joy and gratitude. As he pulled the mail from his garage to his living room, just as much as the large amount last week, he thought of his friend. Anthony didn't know what he was going through, but he loved him, he loved their time together, and the knowledge of his friend's love for him kept the loneliness at bay.

Not that he was no longer sad, no longer lonely. Sadness and loneliness would burrow into his heart until his death, finding random times to strike him. But Ian was strong, and he would prevail. The presence of death did not mean that death was the winner.

Anthony arrived, and Ian pulled himself together. He acted as he usually did, and so did Anthony. Since fainting at the beginning of the month, Anthony had kept concern for his friend, but it was slowly decreasing. It now only existed as a glimmer behind his eyes, one that gave Ian guilt every time he looked into them. So he avoided his gaze as he addressed Anthony about something they needed to discuss.

"Hey, Anthony, I have to talk to you about something." Ian said before turning on the camera, clearing his throat.

"Sure, what's up?" Anthony asked, cheerful, not noticing the way Ian didn't look at him.

"I don't think I can do Vidcon." Ian said softly, looking down at his hands entwined in his lap.

Anthony was silent for a moment. "That's okay, Ian." He said, also softly. "If you can't handle it, we're not gonna do it. That's what I said about it two weeks ago, that's how I feel now." He brightened slightly. "And there's always next year."

Ian nodded and struggled to produce a fake smile. "Yeah, next year." He turned on the camera and started opening some mail, but his mind was far away, thinking of a friend's future without him.

***

The week went as usual, until Ian got a call on Thursday from Doctor Marrow.

"Hello?" he answered nervously.

"Mr. Hecox, this is Doctor Marrow, I'd like to schedule an appointment tomorrow to discuss your health." Marrow said in a business-oriented tone from his side.

"Sure. Would the morning be okay?" Ian asked, knowing he had to film in the afternoon. 

"Yes, of course. See you at eight, Mr. Hecox." Marrow said quickly, and hung up the phone.

Ian found himself nervous the rest of the night, and worried about his health, but he couldn't say he was surprised. The next day would be the first of June, and he was officially feeling the heat California was known for in the past week, which meant only one thing -- Summer was coming, and Ian was running out of time.

***

There was nothing he hated more than that metallic chair. He sat in it every time he had to visit Marrow, and every time it shocked him, then chilled his body, bringing goose bumps to his skin and a nervous flutter to his chest. The awful seat only reminded him of the even more awful circumstances, and as he sat, waiting for Marrow, he felt ice in his veins, and made a silent wish that he could just go back in time, and erase his hated tumors.

Marrow walked into the room, and Ian stood quickly from the cold chair with a creak to shake the man's hand. Marrow gave him a stiff nod, shook his hand, and sat behind his desk, eye contact lacking as usual.

"Mr. Hecox, good morning." But it wasn't good for either of them. Ian had woken up in a cold sweat, sick and nervous, and Marrow had barely slept, on edge at the thought of talking to his patient.

Instead of either man voicing this, Ian mumbled a "good morning" in response, and Marrow opened Ian's file, which was already resting on his desk.

"Now, Ian." Marrow began, studying the file. "When you were diagnosed, you were told you had six months to live. Do you recall?"

How could he not? January 18th, the day he discovered he had terminal cancer. Sitting exactly where he was now, in that damned chair in that little white office, across from a pitying man who couldn't look him in the eyes. Ian nodded stiffly.

"I assumed I would, um, be leaving, on the 18th of June." Ian said nervously, almost in a questioning tone.

"Yes, well, originally, I thought the same, or even less time." Marrow said with a small nod. "But despite some, well, not too savory medical problems, I believe you're doing quite well for your . . . condition. It is my professional opinion, Mr. Hecox, that you'll probably live for several weeks longer, maybe even into July."

Ian stared at him, mouth half open in surprise. An odd mixture of emotions ran through him, but before he could process them, Marrow spoke again.

"Now, please don't think things are going to get better, or the pain will decrease, because . . . it just won't. And you -- you won't recover. I'm just saying you have more time." He looked once, just for a moment, directly into Ian's eyes. "Don't waste it."

Ian nodded without thinking, emotions flowing so thickly through him that they cancelled both themselves and his thoughts. He left the office silently, stiff and unsure of himself, with everything in a blur.

In his car, alone, Ian's mind grew clear once again, and he focused on the two emotions he felt the most; fear and relief.

Relief filled him for an obvious reason -- he had more time alive than expected. According to Marrow, he had up to three weeks longer than he'd originally thought. And he was glad, of course, that he had more time on Earth, more time for Summer and sweet air. He knew he was still going to die, he had accepted it, but he didn't want to, and every second counted.

And then there was the fear. The fear that had already existed, for months, the fear of death, the fear of leaving his family, the fear of the pain he would feel, and already felt. But a new fear was added to him, a fear that he would not be able to keep his secret. He'd done well hiding his cancer thus far, despite fainting and having Anthony almost discover it, but now he was unsure. His physical state would be ailing, and he was not sure he could hide something like terminal cancer for so long. Fear enveloped him on his journey home, and Ian knew he had a lot to consider.

***

Saturday was absolutely beautiful. The sun was high, the skies clear, the flowers bright and the grass green. It was hot, but the humidity was low, making it the perfect day to go out and have fun. Ian remembered being in high school, waiting for finals, and having perfect weather like that to make him, Anthony, and the rest of the students anxious for Summer break. It was Summer now, Ian's favorite and final season.

He had woken up half past seven, sick as usual, but decided to jog before he showered, not wanting to go out when it would be far warmer later. He donned his sweat pants and running shoes, and set off, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth, as he had done for years, but found events unfolding that were new and unsettling, in ways only he could understand.

He was only halfway around the block, when it was becoming too difficult to breathe. Humiliation filled him, but he pressed onward, slower. He continued in a slow jog, until about three quarters of the way around the block, where he stood, leaning over with his hands on his knees, tears burning in his eyes. He scolded himself, and demanded his body to at least stand straight, so his lungs could function properly, but he was too tired to do even that. After a minute, he walked home slowly, face red, and sadness filling him.

He thought about his experience when he arrived home, as he marched off immediately to the shower. He was no longer able to run a block. He had been weak, before, his health was deteriorating significantly, but now, he was on the verge of collapse, after only a few meters. He stood in the lukewarm shower, recalling how he felt. Breath gone, legs like lead, head about to explode.

The shower water began to get colder, and Ian realized he had only been standing there, motionless, for several minutes. He turned the tap to warm the water, and grabbed some soap, thinking back to high school. He had been on the track team, ran daily, and acquired numerous metals. He felt good when he exercised, and loved to run every day. And when he found out he had cancer, he adjusted, and ran less, hoping he still could, but now, he was finished. He was too weak to run, too weak to do something he had done almost every day for twelve years.

All of this, of course, only reminded him of the closeness of his impending death. Ian was frail now, unhealthy, more so than he'd been before. He was weak, and scared, and alone, again, and the pain of it grew worse every day.

He shuddered as the water ran cold once again. Death, for him, felt so close, that he swore it was its icy breath that chilled him, and not the water. He sighed as he turned the tap and waited for the warmth once again, considering his future. He would grow weak, even weaker than he was now, and maybe attract suspicion, maybe get away with it, but then die. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that each chapter averages as about a week of Ian's life, but this chapter is very heavy and wordy, so all you see is Ian's therapy session. It'll give you a lot of insight on Ian and Anthony's dynamic, especially if you were paying attention to their history, as described by previous chapters. To me, Ian's decision regarding whether or not to tell Anthony is one of the most important aspects of the story. There's actually so much stuff packed into this week, that it spans three chapters! Don't worry, though, we'll get through this :)

Ian sat quietly in the waiting room, twisting his hands nervously in his lap. Since his appointment with Marrow on Friday, and his inability to run a block on Saturday, he had a lot on his mind, a lot he wanted to talk to Kris about.

Ruby called him in, and he gave her a polite nod, shuffling quickly into Kris' office. Kris, already sitting in his chair, looked up at his entering patient and smiled.

"Good afternoon, Ian!" Kris boomed, and Ian couldn't help but smile in return as he inspected the older man's attire. The office, usually warmer than the air outside, was still finely heated, even in June, creating a cozy, homey feeling. Kris, over the months, had moved from jackets and sweater vests, to long-sleeve button ups, and was now wearing a tacky Hawaiian shirt with his trousers and dress shoes. He laughed lightly and sat down.

"I really love your shirt, Kris." Ian said, and Kris' smile grew wider.

"Thank you, m'boy! I start to wear these when it gets hot. My wife used to love them." Ian was about to ask about Kris' wife, but saw a pained nostalgia in his eyes, and allowed the old man to quickly change the subject. "So, Ian, how are you?"

"Not so well. Or, actually, really well, considering." Ian said, confusing him. He elaborated. "I saw Marrow the other day, and he told me I have until July, which is longer than I originally thought. And, like, I'm relieved I have more time, but I'm really worried that I won't be able to keep it a secret anymore. I-I think I might have to tell Anthony."

Kris nodded and considered the situation. "Well, Ian, from the beginning, we established that you didn't want anyone to be in pain over it, and that you couldn't live that long with people treating you that way. Did you know, when you decided this, how long you would wait to tell him?"

Ian shook his head. "I just thought, 'oh, I'll tell him later,' and just didn't think about it any more than that. It was always too painful to think about, so I just pushed it away. Now, though, I don't know what to do."

Kris hesitated. "I know, Ian, that you wanted to avoid pain, for everyone. But maybe you ought to consider telling your friend the truth."

"I am considering it, though." Ian began seriously. "I've been thinking about it since Friday, when I saw Marrow, and then on Saturday, when-" He stopped, unsure, but continued upon Kris' encouraging look. "I-I couldn't run around the block. I've done track since seventh grade, I used to run nearly every day, and now . . . it's just showing me how weak I'm getting. I honestly don't know if I can show up on set every day like this, and not have him point it out. He's bound to notice."

"Well, do you know anything of your condition in the future? How weak could you be getting?" Kris asked in a caring tone.

"I don't know. I just know I have a month. One month. And if I feel like this now, how will I feel then? The same, or even worse? When will I have to spend my days in a hospital bed?" Ian stared at him, questioning in almost a panic, and took a deep breath, calming himself. "I mean, I look normal when I'm doing normal stuff, but I do a lot of work on set. What if it's too much?" Tears pricked his eyes, but he paid no attention to them.

"But you've told Anthony you have low blood pressure." Kris recalled. "Surely you could use this as an excuse to ease your workload." 

"I could." Ian mused, eyes still glistening. "But I don't know if I could look him in the eyes."

"No, you don't. But if you stay strong, you probably can. As horrific as it is, people's strength is often used to hide their emotions." Kris said, shaking his head. Ian sat silent for a moment.

"The way I think of it, though . . ." Ian said slowly. "Is that, on one hand, I can tell Anthony, and he could get mad, or he could cry, or he could pity me. Or do all that, and more. Or, on the other hand, I never tell him. I never have to see that pain. I can die without seeing him knowing."

Kris thought for a moment. "I believe it was the end of March when you confided in me that you wanted to know what would happen after your passing. At the time, I asked you to accept that you cannot know, and move on, which still applies here, you may not be aware of the world after your passing. But you have the option of knowing your friend's reaction to your death. Would you still like to see, Ian? Would you still like to know?"

Ian stared at him, mind racing. Did he want to see? Did he truly want to look at Anthony, and tell him he was dying of cancer, and witness that reaction? He thought he couldn't see his friend hurt, but was he curious enough to tell in advance? 

He thought back to the pain of the previous month, the fainting that had shook Anthony to his core. He had drove Ian to the hospital in tears, and had been in a fragile state for days after. Ian had sworn, then, that he could never tell his friend, never see pain grace his features like that again, but what if pain was the best decision for him? There was good pain -- was this that kind of pain? A pain that could possibly help Anthony after he was gone? Or was it just hurting him too early?

Ian, after a long moment, shook his head. "I can't. I can't see him in pain like that. I'm a coward." He mumbled.

"No, Ian, you're not a coward." Kris leaned in reassuringly. "You're making a choice, one based on fear, thought, and feeling. Cowardice is nothing compared to what we're doing now; you're brave enough to sit with me, you're brave enough to live life as usual, you're brave enough to keep secrets, and you're brave enough to stay strong, stronger than most men I've known. You are no coward."

Ian sniffled, and a tear released itself from his left eye, and fell quickly down his face. "Thanks, Kris. But-but this decision -- I-I don't know what to do. But I don't think I can tell him."

"Why not?" Kris asked the simple question, as he watched this man start to break in front of him. Ian's eyes were full of tears and red-rimmed, his nose tipped red and nearly dripping, a frown heavy on his face. His hands were twisting in his lap, worse than ever before, for he was so nervous, so unsure.

"I can't." Ian said once again, softly, shaking his head.

"Do you love him?" Kris stared at him, although he already knew the answer.

"Yes. Of course. He's-he's my best friend." Another tear dropped from his eye as he muttered his response.

"My boy." He heard his therapist's soft voice. "Do you love him?" He emphasized it, and Ian nodded as two more tears fell. He shook, trying to control himself.

He really did love him. Since high school, since he thought he had a small crush, since he tried to give up loving him for the sake of his reputation. Since he didn't experiment, even though he was confused. Since he forced himself to be with girls, and force any feelings towards him but friendship away. Since he tried to just settle for Mel. Since he found out he had cancer.

All that time was spent loving him. Loving being with him, laughing with him, working with him. Loving his hair and his smile, loving his teasing and his jokes, loving him with every fiber of his being. And he had been so ignorant with that. He had told himself they were only friends, he had told himself he had Mel, that she was the love of his life. He had told himself everything was great, and never took the risk with Anthony, and then he found out he was about to die. Maybe the life lesson there would be to take risks, to act on your feelings, but Ian couldn't go back in time and change things. Now, all he could do was decide between not taking the risk, as he had done so long ago, or tell him, tell his best friend, that he was leaving.

But it wasn't just that. It was protection. He couldn't protect Anthony from the pain that would come from this. And eventually, pain would come, but if he didn't tell, he could keep it at bay for awhile. And that's what he did in high school, right? Give him up to protect him from the pain? History does repeat itself, but should it? He could just say it, just confess to the disease, and hurt Anthony, but maybe the pain would be for the best. Or maybe it would destroy him.

Ian eventually regained control over his body, and looked up at Kris, a few tears dampening his face. When he spoke, his voice shook. "I don't know what to do." And he'd never been so lost.

Kris could only look at him grimly. Hand on his chin, the old man eyed the younger, trying to find the right words. "I cannot choose for you, Ian." he finally managed. "But I can ask you to consider it. You still have time, you know, you can still consider. Take a week. One week. You can decide to tell him, or you can decide to hide it. Or tell him next week, or the week after that. Just think about it."

Ian managed a nod, and a sigh, and let Kris silently put his hand on his arm, assuming the old man was only sympathetic, not understanding. Did he know hidden love? Did he know the spark in his stomach when he saw his loved one's smile? Did he know the grin that would form on his face the moment he heard his loved one's laugh? Did he know how everything felt more real, more vivid, more bright, when he was with his love? Ian was sure he couldn't. Couldn't know the secret glee of playing around with him, the blessed joy of seeing him work hard, or focus on a task, and see him become completely absorbed, until Ian spoke, and then all attention would be on him. 

What they had was love. Old fashioned, romantic comedy style love. Friends meant for each other. Beautiful people with seemingly beautiful lives, going places and doing things, and working and moving and climbing, pushing through this weird jumble of art they call life, and just being together. Being together, that was all they needed. But Ian knew they wouldn't be together soon. And he had to choose -- for the sake of himself, Anthony, Smosh, his fans, and for love -- whether or not to confess his cancer.

But he would not confess his feelings. No. He could not. Anthony was in love with Kalel, and he wasn't going to ruin that. Not when he had no time to be with Anthony properly, not when they could only be together when one was in a hospital bed. Or worse, Anthony might hate him, and he would die alone, without even the simple bond of friendship. No, he would carry that love with him to the grave, held tightly to his chest.

But through all of these complications, through all of these nonexistent actions and unspoken words, Ian was certain: he had to decide. There was no other way.

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> decision time continues and Ian does a crap load of thinking.

Ian drove home in a silence heavier than any other he'd ever felt. The few tears that fell in therapy had been wiped from his face, and his expression was blank. At home, he drove into his garage, exited his car, and brought in a box of mail, face still blank.

But his face was only a mask now, hiding the swirling mass of pain and confusion that lay just beneath the surface. He had to decide, in only one week, whether or not to tell his best friend, whom he'd loved for years, that he was dying of cancer.

Ian stood alone in his living room and sighed. Setting the box of mail down, he moved quickly to the garage to get another box. He repeated these actions several times, until he fell, exhausted, onto his sofa. He took deep breaths as he stared at the large amount of mail on the ground, the pile larger than usual because of his desire to open all of his mail before his death. Even something as simple as bringing in mail reminded him of it now, as he was far weaker than he once was.

Ian stood, stretched, and went to the bathroom, having to do so often, because of illness and the increased water his doctor told him to drink so long ago. And it felt like years ago, Ian was sure of it as he stood there, but at the same time, it felt like mere seconds. Time for him had moved sluggishly, yet sped like lightening touching the Earth. It all created the blur in his mind, the unsettling feeling that the rest of his life would follow the same way.

The rest of his life. Ian washed his hands as he thought of that phrase. The rest of his life. One month, give or take a few days. And how it went depended on his secret from Anthony. He could have no idea what his friend's reaction would be though, so he had no idea how it would affect the end. All he knew was that it was the difference between keeping his life as it had been, and changing everything, completely and irreversibly.

Anthony arrived a few minutes after he washed his hands and exited the bathroom. He put on a fake smile, and the concern his friend had for him just one month ago was barely present in his eyes, subdued but still there. They exchanged friendly greetings before Ian picked up his camera, and they began to film.

"Hey everyone! Let's open some mail!" Anthony yelled to the camera, and Ian smiled as he sat with his friend. It was familiar and comforting to be back to sitting on the ground with him, laughing over crazy packages and talented fan art.

"Oh, man." Anthony opened his first letter. "This smells like cinnamon." Ian could smell the spice from his location several feet away, and they both laughed when discovering that the writer of the letter was asking them to do the cinnamon challenge.

"Again, you guys, we're not Jackass." Ian said to the camera, and Anthony laughed, just as he always did.

They continued the Mailtime as they usually did, but Ian remained in a cloud of confusion. As he sat just three feet away from his friend, playing with Pokemon cards and throwing little rubber balls, he couldn't decide whether or not to tell him. He imagined just blurting it out. _Anthony, I have cancer_. He imagined his friend stare at him for a moment, mouth wide with disbelief, then cry, then beg for him to be lying. 

He shook his head and thought of it differently. _Anthony, I have cancer. I've had it for awhile now, I've known since January . . ._ Then he imagined his friend screaming at him, angry, furious. _How could you not tell me? I thought you loved me! What about your mom, what about our fans, what about Smosh? Don't you remember what I said to you? I said I couldn't imagine life without you. Why didn't you tell me then? Don't you love me enough to tell me?_

He shook his head once more, and found himself back in the real world, sitting across from his friend, who was laughing once again at an inappropriate drawing.

"Wow, that's a . . . Um . . . that's a nice drawing." Ian said with a growing smile. "Gorgeous artwork."

"The paintstrokes from the brush are outstanding." Anthony played along.

"Exquisite." Ian pretended to be posh, before they both giggled foolishly and moved on with their mail. 

But still, he thought of it. He thought of every event that had happened to him, trying to determine how it would all add up, how it would all end. Being diagnosed with cancer. Getting Anthony to sign his "just incase" will. Fainting. Canceling their annual trip to Vidcon. Being together every day since the sixth grade, happy and seemingly healthy. He focused on each detail, as if his life was one giant equation, those details numbers, and if he added them together, he could find his solution -- whether or not to tell. 

***

Tuesday brought filming, and time for Ian to think of Anthony. Of their lives together, of meeting him, of falling in love with him, of giving him up. And he thought of what would happen if he told his friend he had cancer.

As they filmed, he thought of Anthony telling the crew, whispering it in camera men's ears, as though talking silently in a funeral home. He imagined them all being scared, or worried, or depressed. He thought of the two of them announcing it to the fans, who were already upset and needed to be addressed about them not going to Vidcon. He thought of Anthony apologizing to his mom, and her horrified face, because Ian hadn't told her himself.

He thought of Anthony hating him and quitting Smosh. He thought of Anthony pitying him and looking down on him, like a small child who couldn't take care of himself. He thought of Anthony caring for him in the end, moving back in and nursing him until he slipped away. He thought of Anthony, somehow, confessing his love for him. He thought of every different scenario he could think of.

He thought of change. Change, that was the only certainty.

***

Wednesday morning brought more filming, some of which had to be done early and edited quickly, to be posted later in the day. Vidcon had announced who was attending the convention on the first of June, and the fans were in an uproar over Smosh's unexplained refusal to go. Ian and Anthony had decided to quickly address the public.

"Ready?" Anthony asked him, as the camera man fiddled with his lens. They were standing in front of the couch, Ian holding a water bottle, trying to flush out some pain.

"Let's just make sure they know it's not a big deal, okay?" Ian asked, not quite looking at his friend. He saw Anthony nod out of the corner of his eye as the camera man announced he was ready.

"Hey guys!" Anthony said next to him. "So June first, the people behind Vidcon released a list of Youtubers attending, and you guys found out that we're not going."

"So we felt it would be a good idea to let you guys know why." Ian continued after Anthony, but had written it specifically so his friend had to tell the lie. He was unsure if he could say it out loud again.

"Unfortunately, Ian's having some problems with low blood pressure." Anthony began again, and Ian heard the slightest quiver in his voice. "As you may have heard on Lunchtime with Smosh on our other channel." 

Ian pointed to the space in front of them, where they would place an annotation for the video in which they told the audience and had a sandwich contest. When the video had come out, some didn't care, some were worried the show wouldn't be entertaining, but the Smoshers were all supportive, which only mixed Ian's feelings. He was glad he was supported, and comforted by some of the messages sent to him, but annoyed at some of the pity he received, and worried for Smosh's future, after the fans all discovered the truth. 

"Shameless self promotion." He coughed, not wanting to be distracted by his thoughts as he filmed.

Anthony's smile grew wider as he continued. "Now, we want to assure you guys that Ian's absolutely fine."

"Yeah, low blood pressure's seriously no big deal." Ian said, which was a bit dishonest, it was a bad disease, but it wasn't a big deal to him, as he wasn't really affected by it.

"Yeah, so, because of his low blood pressure, we've decided not to attend Vidcon." Anthony spoke again to the camera. "All of us at Smosh care for Ian's health, and don't want to put him in conditions he can't handle." The two shared a look, in which it was clear to both of what the words truly meant. _I don't want you hurt again, they said. I want to protect you._

"So we won't be doing Vidcon, you guys." Ian ended his brief glance at his friend and looked into the camera. He could only see the dark lens, but could imagine the faces of devout fans everywhere, staring at their computer screens in concern and disappointment. "Thanks so much for watching, caring about my condition, and supporting us. Bye."

The camera was turned off, and Anthony stepped away for a moment, to look over the footage. Ian took a gulp from his water bottle and sighed. If he never told his fans, that would be as close as it got to goodbye. They meant a lot to him, but he was barely concerned with telling them, more so with Anthony. 

He looked over to his friend, who was mulling over the footage and nodding, hand on his chin and face tense. Anthony was worried, there was no doubting that, worried about him. But only slightly, now. If he told Anthony, maybe that tense look would be permanent. Or maybe replaced with anger, or fear, or pity.

He shook himself, not wanting to think of such things, but images flickered in his mind all the same. Memories, old memories, of Anthony at his worst. Embarrassed Anthony when they called him a fag. Angry Anthony when that one girlfriend cheated on him. Scared Anthony when his brother was shot. Sad Anthony when Ian fainted. Each time, his eyebrows were tense, each time he was worried, a wreck, looking ready to fall apart. And telling him could bring it all back, all that and more.

He shook himself again, and Anthony looked over at him, face less tense, and smiled. He made a motion of the head that requested Ian follow him, and they went to the computer room to edit the work they'd just done. They were alone for a moment in front of the computer, the crew in the other room, and fell into a comfortable silence as Ian began to edit the video.

The silence lasted another few minutes as Ian quickly posted it to Youtube, waiting for the site to load patiently.

"I think we're good." Anthony said after the video was uploaded. Ian nodded and noticed he had an email notification. "Let's go film again."

"Yeah, hold on, let me just check my sister's message." Ian said, clicking on his sister's email. Anthony nodded and walked away, leaving Ian alone in the room a moment to read his sister's email. She was only a few years older than him, but they were never very close. They shared casual emails, and loved each other as siblings do, but that was all. She was on the same level of that of an average friend, so Ian wasn't particularly concerned about how she would react to his passing. She would be upset, no doubt, but would recover quickly, and it would only be a sad detail that followed her about, and nothing more.

The message was short and simple. She explained how much fun she was having in Pennsylvania, where she was in college in hopes of being a cardiologist, and how she thought things were going rather well with a man she'd met a few months ago. Ian smiled at that. Maybe she would fall in love, be happy, get married and give their mother a few grandkids. Grow old and worry over wrinkles and retirement and do everything Ian couldn't do. He hoped she would. 

He sighed and answered quickly and casually. Glad to hear you're having fun, Smosh is good, Mom's fine, all the normal things to say. He didn't confess to having cancer, didn't get overemotional, didn't tell her he loved her or anything like that, because she was only a distant sister, and the one he was considering telling was in the other room, waiting for him.

He exited the room in a rush and got back to Anthony. They spent the rest of the day filming, during which time Ian only had eyes for his friend, leaning on every word, cherishing every laugh. Because if he told him, everything would change, and the normal Anthony that stood before him would be gone. Now all he had to do was decide. By the end of the week, he would decide whether or not to destroy his and his friend's world.

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is soooo long wtf me?? but yeah hope you enjoy it!

Thursday morning, Ian was sick. He kneeled over the toilet, near tears, as vomit slid from his mouth, the acidic goop falling down his chin and making him cringe. His purging ended, and he winced as he flushed the toilet with a clammy hand. He was sweating and felt faint as he slowly lowered himself to the ground, resting his cheek on the cool tile. For a moment, his mind was blessedly empty.

Then his thoughts regarding Anthony returned. They had plagued him all night, making him toss and turn, stomach twisting in painful knots. This was the most difficult decision of his life, and it haunted his every moment.

He thought of Anthony as he stood, wiped his chin, and went back to his room, grabbing a glass of water on his nightstand and checking the time on the alarm clock. 7:30.He shrugged and headed for the shower, thoughts of his friend still lingering in his mind.

After a quick shower, Ian found himself needing something to do before Anthony came over at one, so he decided to start to clean out his garage. He grabbed a peach (he'd went to the organic market the other day) and headed to the garage, gathering his strength. He sighed when he looked at the large stack of mail, piles of props, and random junk, then set to work. 

He pulled out a black plastic garbage bag and started lifting random pieces of garbage, from empty water bottles to old wrappers to torn scripts. He found little trash, and only filled half the bag before pushing it off to the side. Next, he grabbed some of the props that had been sitting in the garage from recent filming, and pulled them slowly into the prop room. The work was slow, and he had to stop often, weaker than most, but after an hour, all of the props were put where they belonged.

He swept out the garage and vacuumed, then looked around to see if any more work had to be done. He saw that he still had a lot of work to do, but was too exhausted to continue. With a sigh, he left the garage, and curled onto the couch, switching on the television to wait for Anthony. He was checking the weather, disinterested, when he heard Anthony's car, followed by his key scratching at the lock.

"Hey." Anthony greeted Ian as he stepped in, putting his keys into his back pocket. He walked over to the couch and sat next to Ian, who moved over to accommodate him. They stared at the television silently for a moment, before Anthony gave a small sigh and reached over his friend, grabbing the remote and changing the channel. They sat a little closer and spent the next twenty minutes watching the end of some Star Wars movie, saying nothing. That was something that had changed in their relationship: they used to talk far more often, but Ian was now too tired for words, and Anthony too weighed down with worry.

The movie ended, and the credits rolled, and Ian stood, stretched, and regretfully left Anthony alone on the couch, getting the camera from the other room. He returned and turned it on.

"Pizza ingredients are in the fridge." Ian said casually, as if Anthony had just arrived, and the twenty minutes of too-comfortable silence never happened. Anthony nodded and stood up, going to the fridge and removing raw dough, cheese, sauce, various herbs, and some already cooked chicken and pepperoni. Now that they had to eat healthy for Ian, the pair opted to make their lunch from all natural ingredients from the organic store, instead of going to a fast food place.

"I think I put the stand for the camera in my room." Anthony said to his friend with a nod, despite the room no longer being his. Few of his belongings remained, but they never referred to the room as a guest room or spare room -- it was Anthony's, permanently, even in his absence. "When you get it, grab your new shirt."

Ian went to the other room to get the camera's stand, then stopped and put on the new shirt they were selling following the Sexy Beatz video and the release of Ukelele Techno Spree back in February, a time that felt like years ago to him. The video had been one of their most popular, and Anthony's favorite -- he was still gushing over it months later, and was waiting for the attention to die down slightly before introducing a sequel. 

He came back to see Anthony opening the mozzarella, and saw his friend look up at him, and give him a sweet, caring smile. He returned it and set up the camera, then stood in front of it.

"Hey guys, so todaaaaaay..." Ian drew the word out, and Anthony cut in.

"We're making pizza!"

"Pizza, motherfuckers!" Ian said, moving extremely close to the camera and pulling a ‘tough’ face. Anthony made a funny face behind him. "But I decided that I wanted to make pizza while being both stylish-" he threw a pose, and heard Anthony's laugh. "and comfortable. So I'm wearing my Sexy Beatz shirt." The shirt was black, with cartoon versions of him, Anthony, Peter, and Taylor on it, and was probably his favorite Smosh shirt.

"Like, five years later." Anthony joked behind him, still struggling with the fresh mozzarella.

Ian looked seriously into the camera. "Anthony can't tell time."

"Shut up and open this for me." Anthony said, and Ian went behind the counter to pull the remainder of the plastic wrap from the cheese.

"Yeah, master of cheese." Ian said, as if in victory.

"You know what I'm the master of?"

"Being ugly." Ian said, monotone. He reminded himself to insert an "Ian, the master of comebacks!" despite finding Anthony not ugly at all.

Anthony faked a frown and nodded, then looked at the ingredients around them. "Okay, what do we need to do first?"

"Preheat the oven." Ian advised as he removed the basil, parsley and oregano from a plastic bag.

"We just never cook, you guys, we have no clue what to do." Anthony said to the camera before shuffling over to the oven.

"450." Ian told him as he ripped up the basil leaves. "Can you grab the flour and a pan?"

Anthony returned to his place next to his friend and set the pan to the side. "I just pour some on the counter, right?" 

"Yeah, not to much." Ian nodded, and Anthony opened the bag and sprinkled some onto the cream colored surface. 

"Hey Ian." Anthony said, sprinkling some flour into his hair.

"Oh, you douchebag." Ian said, and took a pinch of flour from the counter and threw it at his shirt, both of them laughing.

"Raaaagh." Anthony wiped the flour off his shirt, then grabbed the bag of dough, ripping it open and throwing it on the counter with an almost roar.

"Ultimate cooking." Ian noted in a dramatic voice.

"We're just, like, the best chefs." Anthony said as he started kneading the dough.

"We should work in a five star restaurant." Ian agreed as he grabbed a knife to cut the mozzarella. 

"Serve food to millionares. Like, like Fabio." Anthony continued to knead the dough.

"I would do anything for Fabio." Ian said while slicing some cheese. 

"Anything?" Anthony made a seductive face. Ian matched it with some suggestive noises, and they both laughed. "Okay, should I be like a real pizza maker right now?" Anthony raised his eyebrows.

"Dude-" Ian began, but started laughing too hard to speak as Anthony started lifting the dough, getting ready to attempt throwing it into the air. "Don't-just don't drop it on the floor."

"Mamma mia!" Anthony yelled, and threw the dough into the air. By some miracle, he caught it, and Ian applauded. "Thank you, thank you a-very much!" Anthony set the crust down and bowed.

"I'm impressed." Ian congratulated him. "I thought we were gonna have to just eat cheese for lunch."

"No problem with that." Anthony laughed. "Your turn. C'mon, go for it."

They both laughed as Ian attempted to repeat Anthony's action. "I'm worried I'm gonna throw it too high, and just stick it to the ceiling." Ian laughed. He threw it, and caught it, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Yeah!" Anthony yelled. "Master chefs!"

"Let's put this in the pan before we screw up this whole meal." Ian insisted, and put the dough into the pan. Anthony, still chuckling, put the dough in the pan as Ian went back to the cheese. There was only a moment of comfortable silence before the pair were laughing again.

"So." Ian began, looking at the camera, and holding back laughter. "We have this sauce."

"This fucking sauce." Anthony groaned from behind him.

"It seems that Anthony can't get it open." Ian laughed.

"I've been trying to open this stupid jar, for like-"

"Ten years." Ian finished, and Anthony groaned again as he wrestled with the top of the jar. 

"Can you do it?" Anthony whined.

"Nah, no, I'm sure you got this." Ian encouraged him, not wanting to be tasked with opening the jar himself. He had already been tired that day, and was weaker than most, so he wouldn't be able to get the jar open, and would only embarrass himself.

"You just want to watch me struggle." Anthony complained.

"Yeah." Ian lied. He never wanted to see Anthony struggle. 

Anthony sighed and continued working on the can. "So it's been ten minutes." Ian said a short time later, when he suddenly heard a noise behind him.

"Success!" Anthony yelled, holding the lid high into the air. Ian let out a celebratory whoop, and Anthony cheered as if he'd won a metal.

"Get that sauce onto that firetrucking pizza." Ian said with a laugh, handing Anthony a spoon. Behind them, the oven beeped, telling them it was done preheating.

"Hurry!" Anthony yelled over dramatically, and started spooning sauce onto the pizza as fast as he could. Ian grabbed the sliced cheese from the counter and shoved it on top of the sauce. "Basil, man, can't forget the basil!" Anthony said, and Ian laughed as he quickly put the basil and other herbs on top.

"Pepperoni, too." Ian said, brushing his hands together, and Anthony gave him a look of fake panic.

"I forgot to slice the pepperoni! Damnit!" Anthony cried, and Ian handed him the stick of pepperoni.

"Slice, man, slice! Lives depend on it!" Ian yelled. "I'll put the chicken on."

"Yes, that's important, we're nothing without that chicken!" Anthony yelled as he reached for a knife. They both scrambled to do their work, as if on an important mission, but both holding back giggles.

"Hurry, man, twenty seconds!" Anthony yelled as he started throwing pepperoni onto the pizza. Ian threw on the last of the chicken and rushed the pan to the oven. "Five, four..." Anthony yelled. They both ran from the oven, Ian slower than his friend. "Three, two..." Anthony yelled, then reached for the camera, and they both made loud, comical exploding noises as he shook it violently on his stand.

"Oh, that's unfortunate." Ian said, after Anthony stopped shaking the camera, and they both settled down and controlled their laughter. 

"Yeah, we died." Anthony said with a light laugh.

"Just you." Ian smiled, hiding his pain. He didn't want to fake death, even at a stupid moment like this. He had avoided his pretend deaths on Ian is Bored after his diagnosis, feeling uncomfortable, and had just stopped after he fainted. Anthony realized he didn't like it, but thought it was because of the faint, not because of the cancer (of which he knew nothing of anyway), and took over, doing the last two fake deaths for him. Ian sometimes found it hard to believe he fainted only a little over a month ago.

"Okay." Anthony laughed lightly, but caught on. "How long is it? Twenty minutes?" He glanced at the stove.

"Yeah, fifteen, twenty minutes." Ian said with a shrug. "What do you wanna do until then?"

"Your mom." Anthony said, with a goofy look, and Ian let his face fall flat as he looked down and shook his head. "No, seriously, dance battle." Anthony suggested.

"We've already done that a few times. Staring contest." Ian said, hoping for a less strenuous activity.

"We've done that before, too."

"Thumb wrestling." 

"Yes! Challenge accepted!" Anthony yelled, and put the camera back on the stand. Ian walked over to him, and they grabbed hands, standing closer than most friends would.

"Ready?" Ian asked, positioning his thumb.

"Hell yeah." Anthony said, moving his thumb as well. "Just got an insane thumb workout from that stupid jar."

Ian laughed lightly, moving slightly closer to ensure they were both in the shot. "Three, two, one, go!"

They moved their thumbs, trying to pin the other down. They spent several minutes straining and twisting their hands.

"Stop moving your hand so much." Ian said as Anthony moved his hand down several inches. "Hey, hey, you're cheating!"

"I really wanna win!" Anthony said, but Ian pushed on the hands Anthony were already pulling on, and they tumbled to the floor. Ian, lying next to his friend, pinned down his thumb for three seconds, claiming victory.

"Yeah!" Ian cheered, releasing his groaning friend's hand and sitting up. "I win!"

"Fuck." Anthony said, annoyed, as he got to his feet, then offered a hand to help Ian off the floor as well. "Well, that killed five minutes." 

"And provided some high quality entertainment." Ian said, semi-sarcastic.

"Some high quality gay looking entertainment." Anthony said, lifting the camera from its stand once again. "I love how everyone calls us gay, but like, if you filmed other guys as close as us, it would seem just as gay. We're just all this gay."

"Yeah, guys, we're all just this gay." Ian said to the camera, then got serious. "No, I know what you mean. Like, everyone thinks that two guys being close is the worst thing in the world, they think it's gay. And that's dumb, because you can love your friend without being gay. There's a difference between being close and being gay, but no one can be close because a bunch of homophobic assholes think there's something wrong with that." Ian finished his small speech and looked at his watch.

"Yeah, that's exactly what it is." Anthony agreed, going to the cabinet to pull out some plates. "We're close, and society's fear makes people act like that's a bad thing."

Ian nodded. There was a difference between being close and being gay, a huge difference. Anthony was just close to him, and he was in love with Anthony. Maybe not gay, because he wasn't sure of anything, and you can't just define sexuality that easily, but it was something more than just close.

"Water?" Anthony asked him, looking into the open fridge. Ian nodded, and Anthony pulled out a bottle of water and a can of Pepsi, which Ian kept in the house just for him, unable to drink the soda in his poor condition.

Anthony put the water bottle on the counter, and fished around in the cabinet for a glass as Ian checked on the pizza. "It's done! We have created pizza!" Ian said joyfully as he picked up an oven mitt that sat on the counter nearby. Anthony cheered as he poured his can into a glass, and Ian removed the pizza.

"Is it too hot?" Anthony said, rushing over and zooming in on the pizza, feeling the heat radiating from it.

"No, objects that come out of 450 degree ovens are freezing." Ian responded, turning the oven off. "We have to wait a few minutes before we eat it, or we'll get frostbite on our mouths." For one horrifying second, he was reminded of his old nightmare, of the cold on his neck, of the evil, icy Mel, but Anthony laughed and shook him out of it.

"Okay. We'll just make stupid faces until the pizza's cool." They spent the next five minutes looking oddly at the camera, making weird noises and holding back giggles. They cut the pizza and sat at the table, getting ready to enjoy their meal.

"First bite." Ian said in an epic voice, and took a bite of pizza. He widened his eyes and nodded, immensely enjoying his meal.

"My first bite." Anthony said, also in an epic voice, and bit in. He groaned. "Foodgasm." Anthony added, enjoying himself.

"You looked right into my eyes." Ian said from the other side of the table. "I felt like I was on the receiving end of something."

"You enjoyed it." Anthony said as he chewed. 

"I did." Ian answered, completely honest. He tried to avoid awkward eye contact for a moment, but he found himself looking into Anthony's eyes, seeing him give him a happy smile. He looked as if he knew everything -- knew how much Ian loved him, and loved him back, with the same intensity. And yet he looked as if he knew nothing -- young, and naive.

A lot had changed. They had gone from dorky little kids to high schoolers making amateur videos, then moved into a house together as adults, with their own productions, then separated, but remained close, and now here they were, after twelve short years of friendship. One of them was dying, the other didn't know.

Ian looked into Anthony's eyes once again, and found the same joy, the same smile, somehow not awkward at all, knowing all, yet nothing. And in his eyes, he saw all the years, all the joy, all the love they shared. 

It was this moment. Now or never. This was the time, when he had to say it, or he had to live with the secret for another month, then die. 

Ian remained silent.

He could not take away all the joy in his friend's eyes. He could not destroy all of the goodness, all of the innocence, that he saw there. For a moment, it was like he was back in class, young and sitting next to a young again friend, but it felt so much better than that, because they weren't strangers, because they shared all they had shared. He could've said everything in that one moment. He could've not only admitted to having cancer, but also that he was in love with him in high school, that he gave him up, that he still had feelings.

He felt both a million years old, and one year old, at the same time. Young and old, looking into those eyes where, for a moment, there was only joy.

The moment passed. They kept joking, laughing, eating, but the look was gone. Ian could've kissed him for that look, for all the joy it held. But now they were normal again, Anthony remembering the worry and stress that comes with life, Ian losing his youth once again. He was young, yes, but could not feel it, too weighed down with tumors and death. He was an old man in his mind, unable to even say goodbye.

He could never tell now. He never would. He would laugh with his friend, and answer Twitter questions, and eat and laugh with him as they cleaned up flour and pepperoni, but he would never tell Anthony he had cancer, instead carrying it with him until his death, too scared to ruin it all, too loving of his only constant. Everything and everyone changed, and they both did over the years, but this could not change. This bond could not change, not now, not when he needed that stability. 

And so Anthony would not know, not until it was too late. Ian had a million reasons to tell, and a million not to, but it was his love for Anthony that eventually answered his question for him.

 


	27. Chapter 27

It was Friday, and Ian did as he usually did: woke up, vomited, showered, filmed, laughed with Anthony, and watched him and the crew leave after a long day of work, pretending he wasn't sick. The only difference now was that Ian had a thought, a permanent idea, burning in his mind -- since the day previous, he was certain where he had been previously uncertain for weeks -- he would not tell his friend he had cancer. At all. He would die as he lived, pretending everything was alright. 

Ian spent his spare time that Friday, Saturday and Sunday cleaning, continuing on the work he started in the garage on Thursday. He found the work exhausting, but finished over the weekend, leaving the shelves organized, the large piles of mail neatly stacked, and the whole place spotless. He worked hard over the weekend, forcing himself not to think, for if he did, he knew the guilt would come. The guilt over not telling Anthony. He had been so certain, so determined not to tell, but by the end of filming on Friday, he could tell he was lying to himself.

The guilt hit him hard Sunday night, as a cramp in his stomach kept him awake. Lying in bed, he could only stare at the ceiling, wincing at his pain, and feel the guilt reverberate in his chest. He knew it would not rest, not until his death, but he also knew he had a friend there for him to ease it.

***

Ian let the guilt sink in fully as he waited for the clock to strike three in the waiting room on Monday. He needed to discuss what he was feeling with Kris, and hoped the elder man would bring peace to his troubled mind.

He shifted in his chair, uneasy, and looked over at Ruby, who was typing something into the computer, perfectly manicured nails clicking against the keyboard. Their relationship consisted of casual, polite, and respectful nods, an occasional good afternoon, and once or twice, a smile. But overall, they were indifferent to each other's presence; Ian not caring to discuss anything before he'd have to spill his soul with an hour's words, Ruby knowing he had cancer, and feeling too scared and humble to hold a conversation with him.

So they stayed silent, until three o'clock, and then she called him into the therapist's office, he with his look of respect, she averting her eyes.

"Hello, Ian!" Kris boomed as usual when he entered the room. The younger man smiled at him, again wearing a tacky Hawaiian shirt with his trousers.

"Hey, Kris." Ian returned the greeting as he sat next to the man.

"So, last week, I asked you to think about your decision regarding Anthony. You told me you were considering telling him that you have terminal cancer. Did you end up informing him?" Kris recalled quickly, while studying the young man sat before him. Ian looked into his eyes for a moment, and saw more warmth, care, and true concern than he'd ever seen in another person, even Anthony. He looked down quickly.

"I-I decided not to tell him." Ian admitted quietly. "I can't tell him."

Kris gave a small hum and looked down at his shoes. "I hope that you truly thought hard about your decision, Ian. Are you sure you won't tell him?"

Ian, still looking down, shook his head. "I-I just -- I don't know. I thought I would never. When I made the decision, I thought it was permanent. But now, I just feel guilty. Like, really guilty. I just don't want to feel like this."

Kris stared at Ian, but moved his eyes away when Ian looked up. After a tense moment, he sighed. "Ian, let me tell you a story, I think it will help you feel better."

Ian nodded and adjusted in his seat, ready to cling on his words.

"When I was young, I left college for a short time to volunteer in the Vietnam War." Kris recalled, looking almost bitter at the memory. It was a side of him Ian, and few others, had ever seen. "I returned, of course, got my pHd, but I was in war, and war is not easy."

He sat still for a moment, silent, and Ian could see disturbance darken his face, the cheerful glimmer leaving his eyes. He almost wanted to ask him to stop, unsettled by the lack of warmth emitting from him. But the veteran continued.

"We were bombed. Our whole troop, a dozen men, myself and my best friend, Jack, included. I passed out, but when I woke up, I knew things were bad. I was in a makeshift hospital in the capital, Saigon, and ready to head back to the states, but I didn't see Jack."

He looked once into Ian's eyes, but this was the time Ian didn't want him to. In his face, his eyes, he saw all the pain of loss, and he saw the hurt felt when a man lost his friend. He knew, inevitably, Anthony would wear the same expression.

"I was flown home. I didn't see Jack, and couldn't find out anything before I'd left, so I only assumed the worst. It was nice being home, away from battle, but . . . I knew Jack's wife. They were high school sweethearts, married at eighteen. She didn't know he was in the bombing with me, and I-" Kris halted and shook his head. "We were good friends. I couldn't look her in the eyes and tell her. I couldn't see her hurt that way."

Ian stared at the man, who had sucked in a breath, and was looking down at the coffee table. He had kept a death a secret. In some basic way, his therapist knew how he felt. Not from books or caring or being clever enough to understand people, but from living, from experience, from the pain that all humans dealt with, daily. It was a small connection, a small reminder of the pain that effects all people, that gave Ian relief. Because for a moment, he felt so human, so human when he hadn't even known that he'd felt lesser. For that moment, the world's pain made Ian feel less alone. And then the guilt returned.

"So you didn't tell her." Ian clarified, shaking himself from his thoughts, and from the hard silence of the room.

"No, I didn't. I made her happy." Kris looked off, to a space behind Ian's shoulder. "At first, I was confined to my hospital bed, but I did everything in my power to give her joy. We played cards and I taught her magic tricks. We told dirty jokes and talked about everything we could, from books to plays to art. When I was released from the hospital, we went to the movies, the carnival, the museum. I worked until I was near collapse, trying to keep her in a joyful bubble that would protect her from the world."

Kris looked into Ian's eyes once more, with a look of cruel understanding, and Ian returned it, deferential. Kris did then what Ian was doing now -- protecting a friend. Trying to fight the pain away, at least for a little while.

"Two weeks passed. She got the letter." Kris spoke softly, voice void of emotion. "He was dead. When I tried to console her, she figured out that I knew all along. She hated me, she screamed at me at the funeral. We never spoke again."

They sat silent for a moment, deep in thought. Kris was thinking back, while Ian was looking forward. He would not be alive to be yelled at when Anthony discovered the ruse, but he knew that the pain felt in Kris and his friend's relationship would be felt by his friend. It was already a pain that hurt him, weighed down on him every second of the day, a pain that had slammed him with guilt.

"I told you this story, Ian," Kris began, trying to remove foul thoughts for them both, "because I need you to know how I felt. I felt guilty. I felt like I ruined her, like I ruined our friendship. But I think it was for the best. I saved her two weeks of pain, and that to me was what mattered. The outcome was a disaster, but for a short time, she had bliss, and that's all I cared for."

Ian thought for a minute. "So you're saying you agree with my decision to not tell Anthony?"

Kris looked down. "I'm saying I understand the path you've chosen. And if you feel guilty, remember my actions. Remember the joy on your friend's face. Tell me you'd rather see tears."

"Thanks, Kris." Ian said at last, feeling his guilt dissipate. He looked at the clock on the wall, and realized his time was up. Kris realized the same, and the pair stood at the same time. "I'll see you next week."

"Ian." Kris stopped him. "It is not customary for a therapist to bond with his patient, but I've loved seeing someone open their heart as you did to me, Ian, especially when it's so near its last heartbeat. You've reminded me of so much, but forced me to look forward in ways I never have before."

Ian stared at him, mouth slightly open, before giving the man a small, weak smile. "Thank you, Kris."

The session ended unlike any other. The warmth was there, but in small amounts, and Kris was still like a father, but now one who was home from a long day's work, dreary and less caring, stress eating away at him. This time was different, but Kris had done as Ian hoped. He left tense and unsure, but felt his guilt subdued. It was not completely gone, of course, but subdued was all he needed.

***

Ian and Anthony had the time of their lives opening up the large amount of mail that night. It was June, far into a hot Summer, so the sun had just set by the time they finished, and they filmed after opening their mail in the cool night, surrounded by the shine of distant fireflies, and the hum of the insects that brought the season to life.

This was one of the times that made Ian love Summer. He loved the noises the bugs made, he loved how the heat faded at night, he loved spending Summer nights with Anthony. They used to barbecue, make bon fires, go to the beach, go in the pool, do anything, everything, together. The workload always seemed lighter in Summer, the filming more fun, the crew more friendly. Summer brought to him a joy that, during the other seasons, only Anthony could bring.

"Alright." Anthony said to the camera, looking slightly tired after almost two hours of tearing open envelopes and laughing at packages. "Now that we've completed our insane amount of mail opening, we're gonna chill out here, in this forest." He pointed the camera to the shrub behind them. "Oh, oh wait, is that, is that a bear?"

"Yeah, I think it's a suburban California bear." Ian noted from a few feet away, smiling at his friend.

"Those are the most dangerous of all! Ah!" Anthony screamed and shook the camera. After a moment, he pointed the camera to Ian.

"I'll be fine guys, I'm a bear whisperer." Ian said to the audience. "Okay, leave any comments or suggestions for Ian is Bored in the comment section below, see you next Thursday bitches!"

Anthony nodded, shut down the camera, and only stayed a few minutes before going home to Kalel, slightly stressed at being the one who had to fake his death. He thought he now had to because Ian had fainted, due to what he'd been told was low blood pressure, and figured Ian was merely uneasy with the fake death for that faint, not because of the tumors he knew nothing of. Ian stayed outside for awhile, in attempt to cherish his favorite and final season.

His week carried on as normal. He pretended he was healthy when he filmed. He cleaned his house thoroughly, removing anything he felt was no longer needed or valued. He did yoga, but less now, far less, because he was always weak, always tired, and he could feel the disease dragging him down. And he went outside every afternoon, when his editing was done, to sit and remember good times, and good Summers, and appreciate the time he still had.

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...six days...whoops. well you darlings know how busy the holidays are, don't you? *sweats* okay well please enjoy this chapter, Ian is a grumpy mess it's lovely

Ian wiped a few tears off his face as he sat on his bed that morning. He sniffled, took a large gulp, and shoved his feelings down, trying to focus on anything but the date. He kept his mind blank as he walked to the kitchen and took a peach from the fridge. He continued this way as he sat down and stared, without paying attention, at the television, then afterwards, when he threw away the pit of the peach, and took a shower. He stood in cool water, face tense, and lip quivering, with the battle of pushing back the pain.

Of course he was crying. Of course he was upset. It was June 18th, exactly six months after his diagnosis. Six months since his whole life changed, since every thought in his weakening mind was warped and corrupted by the painful feelings caused by his disease, his cancer.

He didn't want to think of it though, knowing his thoughts would explode from him, and his sadness overwhelm him. He spent most of his day shuffling around his house, cleaning, and editing, in attempt to distract himself, in attempt to escape his horrific reality, but his efforts were in vain. The knowledge of the anniversary lingered in the darkest corner of his mind and soured there, darkening that corner further, spreading the cold night through his brain. By the time he was to go to therapy, he felt himself growing tired and frustrated, and could only weakly attempt to suppress the monstrous feelings inside him.

His knuckles were white on his steering wheel as he drove there, on edge. He did all he could to force his emotions away, and denied how poorly he was failing. Upon arrival, Ruby received no kind smile or nod of respect, and he sat immediately in the chair in the waiting room, hands clenched in his lap, head down. He took deep breaths as he waited for three o'clock, hoping to settle his nerves. At last, he felt himself regain control, and Ruby called him in.

"Ian, hello there!" Kris called out to him from his place standing behind his desk. "Sit down, let me just file these papers real quick, I'll be over in a moment!" Ian shoved down a twinge of annoyance as he sat down in his customary comfortable chair.

Kris shuffled some papers, slipped them into a manilla folder, and placed them expertly into his filing cabinet, then quickly moved to sit with his patient. Ian normally would have commented on his neatness and organization skills, but he did not trust himself enough to open his mouth when he was in such a foul mood.

"So, Ian, how are you?" Kris asked, a broad smile on his face. Ian threw him a look of annoyance, and the smile faded. "Something wrong, my boy?"

"Yeah." Ian answered flatly. "Almost everything's wrong."

"What do you mean, son?" Kris asked in concern.

"I mean . . . I'm dying." Ian began darkly. "I'm fucking dying. What kind of sick fucking joke is this? Like-like all of this. My fucking life, it's-it's so . . . it's bullshit."

Kris remained silent for a moment as he saw Ian heat up, about to boil over. The young patient sat rigidly, fists clenched and breathing deeply. He shook his head and spoke again to the man. "What makes you say that?"

"Because it is. It's bullshit. It's bullshit that I have to live like this. It's bullshit that I'm dying now. I'm twenty four, who the fuck says I deserve to die?" His eyes were tearful, but his voice getting louder.

"No one's saying you deserve this, Ian." 

"Well the fucking universe is. Or God, or whatever decided to do this to me." Ian shook with anger. "I hope it's the universe, I hope it's all science and crap. Because if it's God doing this, then they're all praying to a douchebag. A psychopath. Who the fuck does this to people?"

"Ian . . ." Kris said, a soft warning at Ian's increasing volume. Ian ignored him, and spoke again, almost yelling.

"I have cancer. I'm dying, in a few weeks. And there's so many fucking people out there who don't give a shit! All they care about is themselves! They don't fucking know how much pain I'm in, they don't know how lucky they are. Twenty four. I'm twenty four. They get to live for ages, with their houses and their families and their comfortable jobs, and all they do is complain about it!"

Kris looked down, tempted to nod, but remained motionless. He attempted to console the boy, but knew he had said the wrong thing as he opened his mouth -- but his words could not be stopped. "Ian, we all suffer-"

"No, don't give me that!" Ian yelled at him, fists tight. "Don't tell me how bad they're suffering! They cry because they don't get what they want, that's their suffering! Do you think they care when I'm having nightmares, when I'm in unbearable pain, when I have to run to a toilet so I don't shit my pants? They get to go out and run without losing their breath, they can eat fast food, they don't have to worry about taking their Demerol on time, and I'm stuck living like this, and all for what? I'm dying in a few weeks, I'm only here to waste my time on all of them!"

"Now, Ian . . ." Kris said, calmly and firmly, as his patient yelled, not wishing for it to continue. He would've called himself surprised, but he knew he shouldn't have been. Ian was dying, keeping all of his emotions from his friends -- it was necessary for him to vent the way he did, even if some of what he was saying was exaggerated or untrue.

Ian was even more furious now, and stood, yelling at the top of his voice, more angry than he'd ever been. "No! No, you don't fucking get it! I'm fucking sick, I'm fucking dying! And I'm stuck in this position, clinging lamely to my pathetic life, spending all my free time either barfing or cleaning out my house for when I'm fucking ashes! And then I fucking pretend everything's okay for Mom and Anthony, when it's not! It's not okay! I'm out of fucking time, I didn't get to see the goddamn world, I didn't get to see Smosh really take off, I didn't get to be old, or married! I didn't get kids, I didn't get to be Anthony's best man, tell him how much he means to me, take care of my mom more, meet my dad, nothing! All I do is pretend to be another one of these average, greedy bastards with another average, meaningless life, when really I'm a fucked up, defeated cancer patient who spends every week in therapy because his disease is driving him fucking insane!"

And, in sudden realization of his surroundings, all anger escaped Ian, and he fell back into his chair, sobbing. He hunched over and covered his face with his hands as he shook, wailing. His face was burning red, his nose ran, tears poured down his face. He had never been in therapy like this. He had cried like that before, harsh and hard and unpleasant, when he fully realized his diagnosis, when he cramped in pain, when the vomit wouldn't stop. But any tears that fell in Kris' office in the past were silent, without sobbing, and either ignored or quickly wiped away. He had never broken down like this before, in this place, this supposed safe-haven.

Kris waited patiently, feeling sadness and pity for not just the broken man sobbing before him, but the world. He used his sadness to gather strength, enough to watch the man cry, enough to console him, enough to ignore how awful life could be. He sat, slightly lower than he had been before, and watched, stoic, as Ian sobbed, long and loud, with his face still covered by shaking hands.

The minutes dragged for the pair, as the sobbing continued, and eventually subsided. After a long while, Ian sat straighter, and took several tissues, wiping his eyes and nose. He did not look at Kris, embarrassed, as he spoke again.

"I'm sorry, Kris." He could not find the courage to say more, fearing the repercussions of his outburst. 

"I understand, Ian." Kris responded softly. "Frustration is a part of this . . . process. What you're going through, it's not supposed to be easy. I can understand that you'd lose your temper, and yell a bit. Just as long as you understand that your words can be manipulated by your feelings. I recommend you think of what you've said here, and determine which parts were true, which exaggerated, and which were fueled by anger, and hatred of your situation." He suggested, still softly, and wisely.

Ian only nodded, still avoiding his eyes. "That'll be all for today." Kris said, looking at the clock. "I'll see you next week, Ian."

"Thanks." Ian said quietly, but not standing. "Kris?" 

"Yes?"

He turned, and looked directly into his eyes. The warm spark was still there, but it was faded and tired. "Thank you." He said it seriously, keeping eye contact.

"You're welcome, my boy." Kris said, softly, but with a wise, old smile. Ian could not return the smile, but nodded to himself as he stood, and quietly exited the office.

***

It was a struggle for Ian not to look as weak as he felt when he opened the mail with Anthony later that day. His screaming had exhausted him, and his emotions were draining him. Sitting with his friend, he faked a smile, pretended to hear his jokes, and let out robotic laughter, void of real joy. Normally, being with Anthony meant being distracted from the pain, being able to laugh and joke and feel like much less was wrong. Now, though, he didn't feel that. He was miserable, and guilty, and frightened, mulling over his words from earlier that day.

He was truly guilty that he had shouted at Kris like that. He found it disrespectful and ungrateful. But at the same time, he understood that he was human, and that all humans had anger which needed venting at times. And, he had to grimly admit, he was in a stressful situation. He was going to experience anger, and sadness, and guilt. He recalled his words to the man.

  _I hope it's the universe, I hope it's all science and crap. Because if it's God doing this, then they're all praying to a douchebag_. He shook his head, then looked up at Anthony, who was smiling broadly at one of their letters. If God was real, then He wouldn't be all bad, because he had Anthony. And maybe He made bad moments so they could appreciate the good?

_All they care about is themselves!_ Ian shook his head again. People were selfish, that was true, but they could care for others. Not entirely, not for long, but for a time. And maybe they didn't appreciate all they had, but at one point, neither did he. It was just sad that people needed disaster to remind them of beauty. If only the mind were a less selfish thing, if only possession was less important than health, and fellow man.

_I'm dying in a few weeks, I'm only here to waste my time on all of them_! No. That was a lie. He was there for Anthony, and his mother, and his fans, but it was not a waste of his time. It was time he was grateful for, beautiful extra time that he would've taken for granted, had he not gotten cancer.

_All I do is pretend to be another one of these average, greedy bastards with another average, meaningless life, when really I'm a fucked up, defeated cancer patient who spends every week in therapy because his disease is driving him fucking insane!_ It was true, he could've done more when he found out. He could've travelled the world, could've had a grand adventure. But whether he should have or not, he was out of time now, and breaking. His life was ending, he was falling apart, and there was no turning back. Sometimes, you just had to live with the consequences. He was living with them now, and would until the end.

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This chapter is really short but super sad lmao  
> 2\. Happy Hanukkah to my lovely Jewish readers incase I don't update before the 16th :)

Tuesday brought violent illness for Ian. He spent his day in pain, luckily not needing to film, but unluckily finding himself in many unpleasant situations. Groggy and sleepless in the morning, vomiting all day, cramping all night. He spent his time alone in a haze of pain, until Doctor Marrow called, and requested he visit the office.

So on Wednesday, after filming, Ian sat in his least favorite chair in the world, feeling cold and nauseous, waiting for his Doctor to enter the white room. Marrow stepped in only a few minutes after Ian's arrival, not making him wait long, and greeted him politely, but not with joy. He had tried to remain unattached to his patient from the beginning, fearing the too familiar sadness that came with cancer, and thus far had only given him massive amounts of his help, respect, and pity.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hecox." Marrow began, after shaking his hand and sitting behind his desk. "I called you to discuss, well, the end. I want to prepare you."

Ian let out a rattled sigh. "Okay, tell me what we need to do."

Marrow spoke delicately, but still business-like. "Well, I hate to be frank, but you could die any day now."

The words didn't feel like as much of a shock as they once were, but he still found them hard to absorb. He knew he had to die, he knew there was no stopping it, but he didn't want to; he wished, childishly, that he had never gotten cancer. 

"So I'd like you to be ready for what's going to happen. I guarantee your last few days will be bloody. I'm sure you've been feeling tired lately, and that will increase. You'll feel more sick in general. The pain . . . will increase, but not too much." Marrow spelled out the future illnesses for his patient, looking down at Ian's file. "I recommend you check into the hospital in -- in the end, when you feel it's -- it's time."

"I-I can't go to the hospital." Ian interrupted, anxious.

Marrow gave him a pointed look. "Mr. Hecox, I guarantee that your death will be very traumatic if you're not in this hospital. Having medical aid-"

"I won't stay here. The visits are bad enough." Ian refused firmly. He did not want to be surrounded by the cold, white walls for too long. His eyes already strained from his few minutes in the bright, white office, and he disliked the thought of the hospital bed, and the whole place in general. 

Marrow sighed, then spoke again with his eyes fixed at a spot over Ian's right shoulder. "Alright." he gave in. "But please, call an ambulance when . . . when you think you're at the end. I'd like you to be close to the hospital, and myself, just so we can -- can ease you into death." It was important to say, but it was a struggle.

Ian gulped, and felt tears fill his eyes. He nodded: it was all happening so fast. He wasn't a fan of hospitals, but was sadly aware that he needed his, he needed to be there. 

Doctor Marrow sighed, and looked from the space behind Ian, to down at his hands, neatly folded atop his desk. He swallowed heavily. "Mr. Hecox -- Ian -- I'm so sorry, for everything you're going through, for every bit of pain we have to put you through in order -- in order to ease this burden for you." 

He had tears in his eyes, tears Ian had not seen since he was diagnosed, six months and two days ago. His doctor's heavy sadness sent a rush of emotions flooding through him, and he felt his own tears rising in his eyes, threatening to spill over. His doctor saw this, and his sadness grew, until he spoke again, breaking the short silence.

"And . . . I'm sorry for the pity. It's unwarranted, and I'm sure you don't want it." Marrow said gently, sorrow lacing his words.

"Thank you." Ian said simply, after a moment's silence. He had spoken softly, not trusting his voice in fear it would break. 

He gave the doctor a respectful nod, and left without another word. He drove home in heavy silence, the sun still out despite it being half past seven. It was Summer, so the sun shone later, which Ian loved, along with the heat that had filled his car. The windows were slightly open, allowing a light breeze to graze him, but still letting him feel the ninety degree Summer air that came yearly in California. He took a moment to enjoy the season, for he knew he would not see it again, nor any other. It was almost time now. He was almost gone.

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a whole week since the last chapter, wow!!! at least this has given some of you a chance to catch up. i can't believe how close to the end we are!! heads up though, i'm crazy busy as of late so i definitely won't post until after Christmas, and it might be like a few days to a week after. So happy holidays everyone and enjoy!!

"Hey guys, welcome to another Lunchtime with Smosh!" Ian said enthusiastically to the camera in his hand. He was standing in his living room, Anthony behind him, making a goofy face at the camera.

"Today, we're having spaghetti!" Anthony yelled far too loudly, and Ian faked a look of annoyance. In reality, he was glad to have him there, already feeling calmer and more pleasant than he had yesterday, during his appointment with Marrow. Sometimes, all he needed was his best friend to make everything seem alright, even when he was dying.

"Yeah, we're still master chefs." Ian smiled, and they moved to the kitchen.

"Okay, first we need to boil some water." Anthony grabbed a pot Ian had already taken out, and placed it in the sink. "That's an ugly word, boil."

"That's actually my long lost brother's name." Ian commented as he removed some pasta from the cabinet. It was from the organic food store, of course, and although everything he ate pained him now, pasta or rice was never too bad for his stomach.

"Adrian had a twin?" Anthony looked shocked as he turned off the tap.

"Yeah, but they hated each other. When Boil joined that gang, that was the last straw. They never spoke again." Ian turned on the oven, and Anthony set the pasta on the burner.

"Wow. Did he even attend the funeral?" Anthony was wide-eyed.

"I don't know, I didn't even go. He was such a douchebag." Ian shook his head, uncomfortable thinking of the nonexistent man's death, the man with his face, voice, and mother. It was close to him, too close. How many would attend his own funeral? He pushed the thought from his mind. "Do we need to put salt in this?"

"In boiling water?" Anthony stared into the pot. "Should we?"

"My mom used to put salt in." Ian recalled. "Whatever, let's just do it, nothing bad's gonna happen if we do."

Anthony nodded, grabbing the salt shaker nearby and adding some to the water. "Now we just have to wait for this to get hot enough."

"This is literally the easiest thing to cook, because half the time all you do is wait." Ian said, and Anthony nodded.

"Hey, are you still doing youth counseling at the Y?" Anthony asked suddenly, as if he had only just remembered, and Ian nodded. "You don't mention it much. Only when your mom asks about it." Ian's mother hadn't been around too often, either: he was so scared of her finding out he had cancer, he reduced the amount of videos she appeared in, and pretended he was busy, only communicating through the occasional phone call.

"Well have you heard what I say about it? All the kids are messed up, it's not something I wanna think of too often." Ian said, nervous. He had lied, months ago, and told his mom and Anthony that he was a youth counsellor at the local YMCA, when in actuality, he was going to therapy. Telling them about therapy could have caused them to realize he had cancer, and that was a chance he had decided not to take.

"Yeah, I understand." Anthony said, lost in thought for a moment, but returning quickly and changing the subject. "So how awesome do you think this pasta's gonna be?"

"It's gonna be the most awesome pasta ever!" Ian zoomed in on Anthony, who made the most wildly gleeful expression he could manage. 

The water boiled, and they added the spaghetti, allowing it to cook for ten minutes. They joked and goofed around, everything seeming normal, but anyone who watched an old lunchtime video, then the new one right after, would see obvious changes. Ian was thinner, paler, his hair had dulled, and he bore dark circles beneath his eyes. He was calm and reserved, moving and speaking less. Anthony was more outgoing now, louder, trying to make up for the lack of words that came from Ian as of late. But the friend only thought it was the low blood pressure doing damage, and did nothing to help. Not knowingly, at least; his presence was enough to cheer Ian up, to make the symptoms less of a bother, and that was worth leaps and bounds to the dying man.

"How do you tell if it's done?" Ian was staring into the pot.

"You throw a noodle at the wall and see if it sticks." Anthony smiled, and rummaged through the draw for a fork. He used it to pull a strand of spaghetti from the pot of frothy water.

"Are you seriously going to throw that at a wall?" Ian looked at him skeptically, and Anthony nodded.

"Yeah, dude, that's how you figure it out." Anthony approached the wall, grabbing the pasta and preparing to throw it.

"Ready?" Anthony looked intensely at the camera, and Ian nodded.

"Go for it, bro. One shot."

Anthony threw the noodle, and they both cheered when it stuck to the wall, ignoring how ridiculous it seemed. Triumphant, Anthony removed the food from the wall, and returned to the kitchen, throwing it away.

"Okay, we have to turn this off." Ian switched off the oven, and the churning water slowed.

"We need to strain it."

"What?"

"Do you have a strainer?"

"A what?" Anthony rolled his eyes, and they both searched the cabinets, laughing. The search ended unsuccessfully, to the pair's dismay.

"We're going to overcook the noodles if they stay in there." Anthony pointed out.

"Well, what can we use instead of a strainer?" Ian questioned, and Anthony's eyes immediately lit up.

"We have some unused hair nets in the prop room!" He yelled, and before Ian could protest, ran to find one. 

With Anthony temporarily gone, Ian set down the camera, no longer able to control his body. He had been cramping for about ten minutes, and was shaking in pain at Anthony's absence. He could feel his whole body shutting down, falling apart.

Anthony returned, and Ian picked up the camera and faked a smile. He laughed lightly when he saw his friend race to the sink, hair net in his hands.

"You pour the stuff out, I'll catch it in the hair net." Anthony said with a wide grin, stretching the net out over the sink. Ian laughed. "Hurry, we're gonna ruin lunch, and I'm starving!"

"Okay, watch your hands." Ian turned and leaned the camera against a nearby book, turning it so he could film their little stunt. With a grunt, he lifted the heavy pot, and started pouring the water and spaghetti out. The pair both laughed wildly as they used their makeshift strainer, which shockingly succeeded in catching the noodles.

"Here, dump it back in." Ian instructed, and Anthony did so, shaking with laughter.

"Master chefs." He murmured, and Ian giggled. They made sure all of the noodles got into the pot, and Ian got the jar of tomato sauce.

"We just pour this in, mix it up, and serve." Ian said, struggling to open the jar. After a moment, he handed it to his smiling friend.

"Oh shit, this is the same sauce." Anthony said. "Remember the pizza last week?" They both laughed, and Anthony spent the next ten minutes prying the top off the jar.

They ate happily, enjoying their meal, conversation, and Twitter questions. Ian was in pain throughout the evening, but had his best friend, and that eased his pain, giving him the strength to move forward.

***

He found himself ill Friday afternoon. Sitting on the toilet, he sighed when his business was complete, and decided it was best to take a shower. He stood and undressed, wishing silently that stomach cancer wouldn't be so messy. It was uncomfortable, and disgusting.

A hot liquid slid down the back of his leg, and Ian looked down to where the drop stopped, resting on his ankle. Dark red. He turned slowly, and stared, shock freezing him. Blood filled his toilet. He recalled Marrow's words. _I guarantee your last few days will be bloody._ It was starting.

***

He had spent awhile in the shower, staring into space. He knew it had to happen, he had been preparing for months. And when Marrow talked to him about his looming death on Wednesday, he could no longer feel the shock that overpowered him so often in the past. He, just for a moment, felt empty. Like a shell. Like he wasn't dying, but already dead, now merely a body breaking down.

But he didn't want to lose himself in this way. He didn't want to be a body without a soul. He was hard working, a fighter, and he was not about to let go early. Desperate for an activity, to spur his mind or heart, he travelled aimlessly following his numb moment in the shower, finding himself wandering to his bedroom, and spotting a rustling in the corner of his eye. Charlie was looking up at him through the bars of his cage, beady eyes locked on his.

Ian gave the rodent a small, glum smile, and received only a blank stare. He felt a small stir of affection rise in his chest, and moved toward the cage. Lifting it, he whispered a hello to his pet, and set it on the floor.

He exited the room and returned a few minutes later, small towel in one hand, a dustpan, brush, and garbage bag in the other. He sat on the floor, in front of the cage, and gently lifted his friend. Setting the towel down, he placed Charlie on it, and the pet watched the master as he performed his weekly chore of cleaning his cage. 

Ian worked quickly, being accustomed to cleaning the cage and replacing the bedding nearly every week. When his task was complete, he rubbed Charlie's head for awhile, then, exhausted, put him back in his cage.

"I'll give you a bath tomorrow, Charlie, I promise." Ian said softly to his pet. "But I'm tired now, I'm going to sleep."

It was only around six, and he hadn't eaten dinner, but Ian curled into his bed regardless, falling asleep within ten minutes, weak with disease.

***

He kept his promise. The next day, he woke up, ate an apple, and lounged on the sofa awhile, feeling the heat of late June in California, and not doing any yoga. He had stopped almost a week ago, now too weak to flex his decrepit body.

After a period of rest, he gathered his strength, as he had done far too often lately, and pulled himself up off the sofa. Weak, yet determined, he fetched Charlie from his bedroom, and set him down next to the sink in the bathroom. He watched Charlie look around for a moment, mildly interested, nose twitching.

"Gonna give you a bath, Charlie." Ian said sweetly to the creature, and he turned and stared at his owner, not understanding. Ian ran the water, and Charlie, now aware and disgruntled, stepped away from the sink, moving to the opposite end of the counter. Ian made sure the water temperature was fine, before gently lifting his pig and placing him in the sink.

"I don't know if I'm gonna give you any more baths, Charlie." Ian said after a moment of silence. "It's June twenty third, and Doctor Marrow said July, maybe a little longer."

Ian spoke to Charlie differently than he spoke to anything else in his life. His voice was soft, caring, protective. He was gentle when he held him, loving when he pet him. It was similar to a relationship between a large man, and his frail little bride. He, protective, but she so small in his grasp, so easily broken, yet remaining free of damage due to his love.

Charlie only responded by shifting slightly away from the water. Ian continued to wet his fur, reminiscing.

"I remember," he began softly, "I remember when I was a kid, I always wanted a pet. And then this kid in my class, Nick Nieves, showed us all his guinea pig in first grade." he chuckled lightly. "I was so jealous. I begged my mom for years, she never let me have one. I swore to get one the day I moved out. I had a little book on guinea pig care and everything, Ant used to think it was the funniest thing."

He reached for the shampoo, and poured it on his hand, then started to rub Charlie's back. After a moment, he continued his speech. "After Ant and I got the house, I waited until we were settled in to get a pet. But eventually, I did." He looked down at his pet, and smiled, a sad nostalgia surrounding him. "Do you remember that day, Charlie? You were little, probably not. I went to Petco, looked at all the guinea pigs, and I saw you, and chose you. That girl who worked there thought I was kidding when I said I wanted to buy you, but I did it, I got you, a cage, some bedding, everything you needed, and I took you home."

Charlie squeaked slightly, and looked up at him. Ian smiled sadly back down, pretending for a moment that the creature could actually remember, actually understand. He and Charlie had a bond, as all good owners and pets did, but the pet could never recall such events that the owner did, which may sadden those who think of it, but Ian refused to do so. He was upset he was leaving Charlie, and knew the importance of the bond, more so than the memories, but remembering something always strengthens it.

"Anthony thought I was joking, too, that day, before I left. But I came back with you, and he almost died laughing. He had a big grin on his face all day, do you remember? He held you for like, an hour, when I was setting up your cage. He thought of your name, too, we went through about a million before he said it!"

He rinsed the shampoo from Charlie's fur, the joy in his nostalgia fading fast. "I always wanted a guinea pig, Charlie. You and Smosh, and Anthony, that's all I ever wanted. And I got you, and I got Smosh, and I'm thankful for that." 

He paused as unexpected tears came to his eyes. "My whole life, ya know, I just wanted a stupid guinea pig. And then, out of nowhere, a month after I had you, Anthony came up with that video idea, and all that happened. You got a bad accent and an alcohol problem, and all those fans, and a new channel and everything. We stopped it though, remember, because you're getting old."

The pet looked at him, only listening, not understanding. He turned off the water and placed Charlie in a towel, gently rubbing him, tears falling down his face now.

"We didn't want you to die one day, and have nothing to say to our fans. Can you imagine, Charlie, how it felt to know you were near the end? Now look at us, a few months later, and it looks like I'm going to die before you . . ."

Ian paused now, and sobbed, no longer controlling his tears. Shaking, he looked down at Charlie in his towel with bleary vision. "I don't want to leave you, buddy, I don't want to leave you alone. I-I don't want to leave. I know I have to now, but I wish I could just-just go back in time and, I don't know, spot it earlier, get some surgeries, I-I just don't know, Charlie, but I don't want to leave you."

He spoke through sobs, and was hunched over his pet, shaking, tears falling onto the towel, face red. The guinea pig had gone still, and was staring up at his owner, sensing something was wrong. He cried for several more minutes, slowly getting back in control, as he finished drying off Charlie.

Ian spoke again, throat tight, a minute later, brushing Charlie. "I really did want a guinea pig my whole life. And I promise, I swear to you, that you'll go somewhere safe when I'm gone. You'll get a nice home." He stroked the guinea pig's head, staring in thought for a moment. "Thank you, Charlie." he said seriously. "I love you. You mean so much to me, much more than you'll ever know."

Charlie only blinked, and Ian sighed. This was as close to a goodbye as he would allow, and it hurt. It broke him, but it also made him feel closer to his pet, his friend. Not wanting to think further of it, he picked up his friend, and took him to his room, sitting him on his bed, and spending many minutes in silence, just him and Charlie. It might've seemed ridiculous, but Charlie was an accomplishment, something complete. Charlie was a friend and a pet, Charlie was home. The only thing he would let himself say goodbye to.

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> despair for all lol

Ian woke up early, ill as usual, then wandered aimlessly through his home. He tried not to think of the place without him, but it was not hard to; he had cleaned the house thoroughly, threw away much of his belongings, and packed away almost everything that wasn't necessary, hoping to make things easier for his mother when she had to sell the house following his death. But one room, the one he'd strictly avoided, was not yet packed, and today he would find himself in it, unsure.

The prop room, the room where he and Anthony kept all of their wigs, hair nets, costumes, make up, dummies, and everything else relating to Smosh. He had found himself uneasy when planning on emptying the room, not wanting Anthony to ask why their things were gone, but also not wanting to remove any precious memories.

When he did find himself in the room, Ian packed most of the props away, but ended up not throwing anything in the trash, the memories held there too beautiful, and too great a reminder of what he was losing, what he hadn't cherished enough.

_Snorlax foot,_ he smiled. He had taken it out of the garage when he was cleaning it back in June, and put the whole costume in its proper place.

_The blonde wig Anthony wore pretending to be his nonexistent sister, Antoinette_. That was one of Ian's favorite videos.

_The suit Anthony used while acting Pee-Wee Herman_. Ian always thought he looked good in that lipstick, even though he'd never say it out loud. He didn't prefer Anthony in make up or anything, despite the fun they had filming the Makeup for Men video, he just thought it was nice, once in a while.

He folded some of the clothes and put them into the room's storage containers, and hung the rest in the wardrobe. He neatly put away the makeup, nail polish, and glitter, some of which belonged to Kalel, and some even to Mel. Thinking of her was odd; he was upset he had to let her go, but at the same time hopeful she would have a better life without him, and his fatal disease.

He selected props they rarely used, or no longer needed, and packed them in a large box, knowing they would do well as entertainment for others. Things kids could dress up in, like feather boas, or things they could play with, like a Pokeball. If he or Anthony would never use some of the props, the least he could do was give them to someone who would benefit from the smiles they'd cause.

With everything neat and organized, Ian left the room, to put his donations to the church in his car, the spoils of his cleaning. While in the garage, he wrestled his bicycle into the back seat as well, weakening him, but for a good cause.

He returned to the living room to fetch his keys, but stopped, staring around that room and the kitchen. The place was cleaner than it had been so long ago, barren, even. He had removed what he felt was unnecessary until he felt it would cause suspicion, and as a result, the normal items that plagued the average household were absent. No more books and magazines, no stray coupons, CDs, games, anything extra. In the other rooms he had the necessities, and things that he could not bear to part with, and nothing else. It was lonesome and depressing, but he prayed Anthony would not notice. He just wanted to make things easier, to lighten the load for his family.

Ian found his keys on the counter, and drove in silence to the church. His head hurt and stomach cramped, but they always did that now. He was crumbling apart.

When he arrived at the church, he found it empty, having taken so long in the morning to organize the prop room, that the usual horde of old women was absent. 

He selected one of the several heavy black bags full of donations from his back seat, and walked it into the church, stressed under its weight. The building seemingly deserted, he shrugged and set the bag on the pew, and figured he would bring in the rest of the donations, for the deacon to find later.

It took several trips from his car to bring the multitude of objects into the church. After several minutes, Ian had successfully carried in boxes and bags containing the props, some costumes, board games, the game boy color, his old X-box (Anthony already had one, so he wouldn't use Ian's following his death), and anything that he felt was deserving of charity, and unnecessary to his life. 

Exhausted, Ian returned to his car for the final item, his bike from the backseat. He returned, wheeling the bike into the church, to find the deacon standing in front of the pews, amongst the donations.

It had been a long time since he'd seen a look like that on someone's face. Deacon Franklin was surprised, happily surprised, and the joy shone through him, making him visibly brighter. His eyes had widened and were darting around, taking in the bags and boxes full of donations. His mouth was open, his smile wide. His hands were out in front of him, as if he wanted to hold all of the items, to make sure no one would take them away from his church and his patrons. 

Ian moved the bike to the middle of the room, put down the kick-stand, and felt a warmth in him, looking to the deacon.

The deacon saw the bike and made a small noise, a hidden cry of joy. Wordlessly, he rushed to the bike and touched its handles, examined its tires, fiddled with the chain. He stood after a moment, and raised his hands in front of his mouth, spinning around to view the donations once again. Hands on his head, expression full of disbelief, he turned, and rested his eyes on Ian.

"Ian." He stopped to take a breath, almost laughing with happiness. "Thank you. Thank you so much. For everything you've given. You have -- you have no idea how much help this has been to us."

Ian smiled, feeling an odd sense of self-pride build inside him, one he had not felt in a long time. He said nothing, and was still for a moment, taking in the sight of this happy man. It brought pride to him, and peace, and contentedness.

"Really, Ian." Deacon Franklin looked down at the bike, and then up at Ian's face, tears of appreciation shining in his eyes. "Thank you. All of the clothes and toys you've given have helped the kids here so much. And this -- this bike-" a tear dropped down his cheek, but the joy that caused it distracted the deacon too much for caring. "We can keep this bike at the church, or at the Y, and all the kids can take turns on it, it's nice and sturdy. We can get them all to exercise, get some air in their lungs! You've given us so much, Ian, all of the clothes and games, it's wonderful!"

He was bouncing, full of happiness. He looked ready to fly away at any moment, and it was this that encouraged Ian's smile to grow wider, and his next words. 

"Speaking of those games, Deacon, I donated a bunch awhile back that you decided to give to the Y. They already have an X-box, don't they?"

"Yes." The deacon nodded, trying to control himself. "We saved up and bought it last year, for all of the kids to play with."

"Well, they're getting another one." Ian said, cheeks hurting from his smile, and laughed at the deacon's reaction. Deacon Franklin looked shocked and surprised all over again, and let out a booming laugh, hands on his head once again. He reached forward and crushed Ian in a hug, and Ian could feel him quivering.

"Ian." The deacon struggled to speak after he released the young man, now barely able to breathe. He was weak now, and the wind had been knocked out of him by the force of the hug, but his smile remained, and he shared the deacon's joy. 

"Please, understand how important your actions have been. In the past few years, the amount of donations we've gotten has decreased, and the amount of needy people increased. Because of all you've given us, unfortunate families in need have more clothing, more entertainment, and more to look forward to. I'd like to thank you, for myself, for my patrons, and for my church. You have virtues and compassion that I wish could be seen in more."

Ian smiled, blushing but proud. "Thank you so much, Deacon. I know it's been hard, but now, more than ever, we all need each other."

They shook hands, and the deacon, with the excitement of a child on Christmas, started to open the nearest bag. Ian, smile remaining, gave the deacon a respectful nod, which, in his distraction, he did not see, and walked out quietly, taking a last look at the tall ceiling, white walls, and heavy doors.

***

The house was silent as the sun set that night, late because of the season. Ian had the windows open, enjoying the summer's heat, but not his activity. He stood in the computer room, weak and tired, but with one last job for the day. 

He held in his hands a small stack of papers, which he had gathered from his bedroom, the desk in the office, and whatever miscellaneous places he had left them. On the desk before him sat a small safe, one he and Anthony had decided to buy to ensure the safety of several papers and documents. He opened it, having memorized the five digit code along with Anthony. Inside lay a copy of the deed to the house, a filming permit, and his passport.

  Ian looked down to the objects in his hands and sighed, stacking them atop the papers in the safe. A copy of his birth certificate and his will, some paperwork from Smosh that he felt too valuable to store at random, a few important security pins, and a nice old watch. He had kept it because it was a family heirloom, but he knew that back at the church, one bag held a nice gold chain and a silver bracelet, one formerly belonging to his father, the other to his sister.

Most important papers he had found in his home had been discovered when he cleaned his desk at the end of February, which, to him, happened years ago. 

Those papers had remained in the desk, but the ones he felt needed added security were placed into the safe. Ian was certain that Anthony would find them at some point, but of every other detail he was unsure. Would Anthony think to look in the safe, or would his mother have to ask him for the code? Would Anthony even visit the house after his death? Would he even care about the items in the safe, items Ian made sure to keep safe just for his family?

Ian sighed and shook his head, then slowly lowered himself onto the chair beside him, legs shaking slightly. Ignoring his weakness, he recalled his visit to the church in the morning. He had given nearly everything to the church; what remained was only a few props, miscellaneous objects he felt Anthony would notice the disappearance of, and just enough clothing for the remaining time in his life. It wasn't long now, either, already the twenty fourth of June, when Marrow said early July at the latest.

Ian sighed once more and looked out the window at the horizon. The sun was gone now, the sky a mix of blue and fading red. He had written a will, cleaned his home, donated his things. He was fully prepared to die now, and he could. He could die at that moment, in his chair. He could die the next day, filming. He could slip away while sleeping, or suffer for hours. And the saddest thing was that he had accepted it. He accepted it as a weak, elderly man would, and for this reason, he felt very old.

But goodness came in every situation. With his death, he donated, and with his donations, people were helped. Unfortunate people, like himself, but different. Everyone suffered from different tortures, but through those differences came similarity. Community. Strength. All there, in that church. Ian wasn't religious, but he held great respect for the place and its members. Weak, sick, and stressed, Ian stared out the window, at a world he would soon not be a part of, and actually felt a moment of joy, at the knowledge of all he had done to help.

 


	32. Chapter 32

Ian was shaking as he sat in the usual cozy chair in Kris' office, nervous. His life was ending; he felt his body shutting down, his heart on its final beats. He had no idea how long it would be now, and he was not sure how much time he had left with the kind old man who stood at his desk at the other side of the room, quickly putting away papers in order to be with his young patient. 

Kris came over and sat with the ailing young man, greeting him with a smile, that faded when he saw the fearful look on Ian's face. He sighed, discontented with seeing him in such a state. "What's wrong, my boy?" He felt sick for even asking the question. So much was wrong. The boy had cancer, less than a few weeks to live, and he hadn't even told his family. A life was falling apart in front of his eyes, and no matter how much he helped, he couldn't fix it.

"Kris, I don't know how much time I have." Ian said, only aware of his estimated time frame, to early July, and the date now, June 25th, but of nothing else. "I don't want this to be goodbye."

"Ian." Kris leaned over in his chair, and touched the younger's sleeve. Even in the hot weather, Ian had taken to wearing hoodies when he was in public, his arms noticeably thin and pale. "I won't let this be our goodbye. So don't say it. Not yet. Just talk to me. How are you? How are you accepting this?"

Ian nodded, and smiled in gratitude, visibly relaxing. "I have regrets, you know, but overall, I'm at peace. I know I have to die, I've accepted it, so there's nothing I can do now."

"Regrets?" Kris removed his hand from Ian's arm to adjust his glasses. He gave Ian an encouraging look, and for a second, Ian was reminded of his therapy session the previous week, when he screamed at Kris, when he broke down and sobbed. A wave of guilt hit him, and he pushed it away.

"You know, the standard old man's regrets . . . looking back and wanting to say yes to more, to travel more, to do more. There were things I wanted to do, that I just didn't do. And I can't fix that now. I've accepted that though, I accepted that a while ago."

"There are some things you can do now, some you can fix." Kris said pointedly. "They might not seem big and important because they're not physically going out and having a huge adventure, but the actions you can take in the time you have left are still journeys."

"Yeah, I know, I'm almost done cleaning my house, preparing my family for life without me, so that's something I can do now." Ian nodded, though practically done cleaning. He knew the remainder of his time would be concentrated on making sure no one found out.

Kris sighed once more and thought for a moment. True, Ian could spend the rest of his time keeping up his act, but Kris was hoping he would instead realize it was time to tell his family. He looked up at the boy, who was examining the globe he always left on the table. Could he really say that Ian was making the wrong choice, when it wasn't clear if there was even a right and wrong choice in the situation?

 Personally, if Kris were put in that situation at his current old age, he wouldn't tell anyone. But, should that have happened when he was Ian's age, he might've told. He probably would have. But they were two different people, and everyone had to treat their situations differently.

Many months ago, Kris bought yet another psychology textbook, one specializing in patients who knew they were dying, from cancer or another illness. Kris had studied that sort of thing in college, but he was on the hunt for one book that said it was alright for the patient not to tell his loved ones. He found none. Every professional psychologist out there would want Kris to look at Ian, in the eyes, and ask him to at least consider telling his family, if not, command it. But Kris couldn't do that. He couldn't ask Ian to do that. He was too close to the boy for that.

"Ian. My boy." Kris said, and Ian looked up, directly into his eyes. "Even though this is the end, I want you to continue coming in every Monday, until your death. If that's one visit, or one million." The twinkle was present in his eyes, and he emulated a warm feeling of consolation.

Ian nodded, blue eyes on blue, and then suddenly broke down. He stared down into his lap as tears leaked from his eyes, and he quickly hid his face. This was the second week in a row he had cried like this in front of Kris, and not for a different reason. Last week, he was frustrated, and he was this week as well, but it was more than that. He was tired, he kept in his emotions all the time and couldn't hold it in anymore, needed to vent. He was scared of leaving his family, nervous about keeping his secret. Guilty for keeping it, paranoid he was making the wrong choice. Happy to have what he had, full of regret for things he'd never done. And relieved, so relieved, for Kris. For this father figure who helped him through it all.

And there he was, sitting in the chair he had learned to associate with warmth and care, and the accomplishment of discussing an issue and receiving love and attention, never fear or hate, and he was sobbing, because everything was happening so fast, so many different things, and he couldn't control any of it. He lost the chance to control when he permanently decided not to tell Anthony, and now he was just a victim, a victim of life and love and disease. 

Kris was again stoic as his patient cried, and waited calmly as Ian regained control. Eyes red, body shaking, he looked up at his therapist, and unlike last week, gave a small smile, which was returned. "Thank you so much for being here for me, Kris." Ian finally said, voice rough. "I'll come back every Monday, I promise."

"I'm glad." Kris stated simply, and the pair settled into comfortable silence. But Kris was only glad that he had more time with Ian; not glad he was dying, or glad why he was there and had those sessions, or glad about any part of their situation. He was part of a sad friendship now, one where only the partner brought joy, not their standing or situation. And as Ian left his office, Kris could barely feel that joy, as it had been for months, because the sadness that was death had hung around them like a poisonous cloud, choking its next victim, weakening those who surrounded, even those who did not know of its presence, but especially Kris, and even Marrow, who struggled to view the real world while trapped in that cloud with him.

***

Another mail time. It seemed the same, but it was still so different. They were opening huge amounts of mail in a desperate attempt by an ailing man to read it all before his death, to avoid giving his friend yet another burden. He was pale and thin and sick, yet he sat, pretending things were alright, as he opened fan mail with his best friend, the man he kept everything from as of late. 

A lot of it was gone by then. Ian was hopeful they would finish it, but he couldn't be sure. Of anything. He couldn't even be sure that he would keep the secret until his death; on last Friday's video, at least a hundred people had commented on how bad Ian looked, how sick and frail and shaky, but they all thought it was low blood pressure. He was desperate that his friend would think it was the same, and luckily he did, but he was nervous all the same.

***

He spent the rest of the week as he had spent so much of his time, torturing himself by faking like it was all okay, then spending his moments alone ill or cleaning. He took a long time to make sure the house was perfectly clean, and on Wednesday, Ian found himself sitting in front of the desk in his computer room, staring blankly at the dark screen.

After a moment, he realized why he was in the room, and took a blank sheet of paper from the drawer. Grabbing a pen as well, he attempted his neatest handwriting, and wrote down every important pin, number, combination, or code he could think of. He then listed the password to his email address, his Facebook and Twitter accounts, which he did only incase he ended up not deleting them, and their Tumblr account, which he knew Anthony knew the password to, but left it just to be safe.

When this was done, he dropped the pen and leaned back in his chair, satisfied by his completed task, but not the reason it had to be completed. Nearly everything was in order, and Ian was almost ready to let go, despite not wanting to. But it wasn't something he could fight, it was nature, or God, or the universe. Whatever it was that gave Ian terminal cancer was a force humans could not fight, could not win against. So Ian accepted the loss without the battle.

 ***

When Anthony arrived the next day to film Lunchtime with Smosh, Ian was grateful that his friend showed only the average amount of concern. Anthony held the strained look on his face that was, unfortunately, getting more and more common when he wasn't filming. He relaxed, though, as Ian got the camera and they started filming.

"Hey guys, welcome to another Lunchtime with Smosh!" Ian said to the camera, struggling to smile. He was sick and tired, but he wanted to be there, so he kept going.

"So today, we're taking advantage of the weather out there." Anthony pointed out the window, where the sun was shining in a sky void of clouds, the grass green and healthy, and the insects were buzzing and showing off how much life there was during Summer in California.

"Gorgeous." Ian said about the weather, yet an image of Anthony flashed behind his eyes. He shook himself. It was too late for that now, too late for everything.

"Flawless." Anthony added with a smile.

"Picturesque." Ian said, and Anthony pointed at him, impressed, before addressing the camera once more.

"Anyway, we're gonna grill some hot dogs, but because we're the healthiest bastards alive, we're making some tofu hot dogs."

"I highly doubt we're the healthiest bastards alive." Ian snorted from behind him.

"Really? I thought my years of not exercising and eating tons of junk food made me super healthy." Anthony joked. "Come on, let's get those hot dogs."

He went to the fridge and pulled out a pack of tofu dogs, while Ian went to the cabinet to pull out some whole wheat buns, stomach twisting. The pain very rarely stopped now, even when he took his Demerol, so he had to get used to the burning and cramping.

"Outsiiiiiide!" Anthony yelled, and danced his way out the door. Ian laughed and followed him, filming as Anthony placed the package of hot dogs on the ledge next to the grill and began a foolish dance, what could pass as a failed Dougie.

The pair laughed, and Anthony suddenly grabbed Ian, camera still in hand, and danced with him around the yard, giggling. Anthony had one hand entwined in his, and the other on his side. Ian's giggling was nervous, as he was afraid Anthony would feel his ribs through his shirt, but still enjoyed the dance. Anthony, naïve, merely twirled his friend around, not noticing his fears and pains, then laughed as they started a tango along the garden, which was not in as fine condition as when Ian was able to take care of it.

There was a moment of something that felt like silence, but it wasn't. They could hear their giggles, their short breath, the light wind ruffling the leaves around them. They could hear the neighbor's wind chimes and kids playing down the street. They could hear grass being pressed beneath their shoes, bugs buzzing around them, birds wings in the air, their own contented sighs. Ian realized it wasn't silence; for the first time in so long, it was peace. Utter peace.

And then it was over. They untangled their hands, and Anthony let go of his back. The giggles subsided as Anthony walked back to the grill and turned it on.

"Excellent dance moves. Can you grab some plates and the tongs?" Anthony asked, making the motion of using tongs with his hand.

"Sure. Be careful, I think you're turning into a crab." He pointed at Anthony's hand, and the friend looked panicked.

"Water! I need to live in water!" He made several choking sounds and fell over. Ian stared at him for a moment, then headed inside.

"Aren't you guys glad I'm filming this? Me getting some plates, this is honestly the most interesting thing we've ever done on this show." Ian said lightly to the camera in his hand as he retrieved some paper plates from the cabinet. He grabbed his bottle of water and returned to Anthony outside, who was still lying on the ground, hands around his neck as though suffocated.

"Here's your water, Ant." Ian said, untwisting the cap of his water bottle and making as if he was about to pour water on his friend.

"No, no, no, no." Anthony stood up in a rush, and they both laughed lightly.

"Take your tongs."

"I'm taking my tongs."

"Go grill some wieners."

"I vill grill zese vieners." Anthony said in an accent, placing his tongs on the ledge beside the grill and opening the package of hot dogs.

"Yes, ve all love ze wieners." Ian played along. "Despite not buying zem from the usual viener place."

"Who needs zeir wieners, ve can have our own vieners." Anthony placed three hot dogs on the grill, and licked his lips at the camera.

"I love my own viener." Ian smiled, and Anthony laughed.

Anthony spent the next few minutes talking amiably to the camera, but Ian didn't pay attention. He stared at his friend's tall, slim figure, then down at his own weak frame. He figured by then Anthony must've noticed the weight loss, but just didn't see how severe it really was. Anthony had always been like that; caring, but not knowing the extremity of a situation until it was too late. For this, Ian supposed he ought to have been thankful, because his friend would have surely figured it out a long time ago.

"Ian, would you like your bun toasted?" Anthony asked him, interrupting his pondering. Ian nodded, and Anthony put a hot dog bun on the grill, next to Ian's single hot dog. Ian knew that Anthony was at least aware of Ian's sickness, for he had given his friend only one hot dog without asking if he wanted another. He knew about the change in diet and the weight loss, but figured it wasn't serious, and just a result of low blood pressure.

"Alright, time for plates." Anthony spoke again, and put the hot dogs on their plates. He turned off the grill, and grabbed the tongs and the camera from Ian, while Ian took everything else, and they went back inside. Ian set the plates and his water on the table and put the hot dog buns in the cabinet, and the rest of the hot dogs in the fridge.

"Don't forget our ensalada." Anthony said from the sink, where he was speaking to the camera while washing the tongs. Ian nodded and grabbed the bag from the fridge, opening it and pouring some on both of their plates.

"Hot dogs and salad? This looks familiar." Ian commented as he put the salad away and took a can of soda for his friend.

"Aw yeah, hot dog salad." Anthony said as the pair sat down. 

They both laughed comfortably, then fell silent for a moment. "Who needs Vidcon." Anthony said softly after the little silence, and they shared a friendly smile, before Anthony spoke in a normal volume to the camera once again, and Ian was left with the slight guilt of not attending the last Vidcon he would ever live to see.

Some similarities remained from when they had started Lunchtime with Smosh so long ago. It was still two friends, laughing and eating, answering questions as they joked. But Ian had gone from loud and always eating, to quiet and thin, having to force himself to eat. Anthony had gone from average volume to loud just to make up for his friend's silence. One friend went from healthy to ill, the other from happy to strained with his worry. Lunchtime with Smosh was changing now, falling apart now, and would soon be completed. Finished. But not entirely gone; the memory of it would last forever.

"Now that our food is complete," Ian began as Anthony laughed across from him. "what would you rate it, Ant?"

"I would rate this wonderful meal one hundred hot dog salads out of one hundred. But I would rate Ian's dancing zero out of one hundred."

Ian faked a hurt look, then turned and gave the camera a small smile. "See you next Thursday, bitch!"

Lunchtime with Smosh ended, and Anthony left, and Ian was left all alone for the day, only able to ponder on the last thing he said to the camera. He hoped his words rang true.

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probably should've posted this earlier since it's so short but what can ya do

Sunday, July first. It was horrifying to Ian that he once thought he wouldn't live to see the day. It was more horrifying to him that he knew he only had several days after.

He was up early, and quickly found himself on his toilet, tears on his face as he tried to keep his bravery. He didn't want to lose control, not then, when there was so little time left. He took his shower, ignoring the blood dripping down his legs, a deep pink swirling around the drain.

It was only seven when he was dried and dressed, but nerves kept him from returning to bed. He spent under a half hour editing, then could feel his anxiety toying with his ADHD, an irritating combination. He was worried, worried about how long he had, how he would be feeling, how hard it would be to let go.

Ian spun his chair away from his computer, staring at the wall with a painful exhaustion. He felt uneasy, and sought to remedy it. He pulled out his phone and stared at the time, only 7:35. With a sigh, he called Doctor Marrow.

"Doctor Marrow speaking." The doctor picked up after just one ring.

"Doctor, this is Ian Hecox." Ian spoke nervously. "I know it's a Sunday, and it's really early, but, um, could I come in?" There was silence for a moment from the other end. "Later is fine, too." He quickly lied in attempt to be polite, still nervous.

"No, Mr. Hecox, you are one of my more -- more special patients, you can come in whenever you like. I was only in this early to fill out paper work, but you can come right away on special hours."

"Thanks, I'll be over soon." Ian said, grateful. He was so electrified by his fear, but so dulled with exhaustion, that discomfort plagued him until he welcomed a guiding voice, a helper. He stood immediately, then became dizzy and regretted it. Taking deep breaths, he left the computer and his editing behind, and went to the garage.

He drove in silence, only his rattling breath shaking the air. He felt nauseous and was sweating buckets, clutching the steering wheel until his knuckles were white and palms numb. He was hot, shaking, and his whole body hurt, and his fears did not help at all. He knew he was dying, he had felt it for months, but it was so intensified now. It was so raw.

Upon arrival, he sat for a moment in the parking lot, attempting to compose himself. Ian knew how Marrow pitied him, and didn't want to go in looking worse than he already was. Shuddering, he left his car, and made his way slowly to Marrow's office.

For a change, Marrow was already in his chair when Ian knocked on the open door, quietly sorting through papers. When he looked up at Ian, connecting eyes only for a moment, pity and panic sparked in him.

"Ian!" He quickly pulled his patient into the cold, metallic chair that Ian hated so much. Ian looked at him, startled, as he took a small flashlight from his coat pocket and shined it into his eyes; the man rarely used his first name, in what he assumed was a fear of connecting with those so close to death. The doctor seemed to regret his outburst, and calmed himself as he slipped the flashlight back into his pocket.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, I was just -- just scared, I guess." Ian apologized for coming in so early, but Marrow shook his head.

"No, Mr. Hecox, that's just fine. You're in rough condition now, I'm not surprised you needed a visit. You may recall that I suggested you stay in a hospital for -- for your remaining time. If you've changed your mind-"

"The answer's still no." Ian said, voice weak, but the words still sounding firm. "I couldn't."

"Okay." Marrow slowly nodded his head, but looked mildly disapproving. "Just tell me how you're feeling right now."

Ian slumped down into his chair. "Awful. Everything hurts, I'm tired, I'm nauseous, and there's -- there's so much blood." Sweat glistened on his forehead, despite the cold hospital blocking out all of the July heat. He looked up at Marrow, breath shallow, feeling foolishly weak, only to find the doctor studying him carefully.

"I know this is hard, Ian." Marrow said after a moment. "But there's little I can do. You're dying."

Ian nodded and stared out the window, watching birds fly by as he held in tears. He was so tired.

"Can you get home on your own?" Marrow asked him, concern and pity lacing his words.

Ian closed his eyes as he felt tears approach. "I honestly don't know." He admitted. He felt too ill to drive, to move.

There was another moment of silence. Marrow sighed, then moved behind his desk and removed his white coat. He draped it on his chair before opening a desk drawer, removing his wallet. The noise of the drawer made Ian open his eyes once more, but that was his only motion, sickness weighing him down.

The doctor frowned at his patient, then closed his desk drawer and moved quickly behind the metallic chair where Ian sat. "Here." He said in a low, gentle voice behind Ian, and the young man felt hands on his shoulder and side. Marrow helped him out of the cold, metallic chair he hated so much, receiving a shock as he did so, until he was standing next to him, hands hovering around his figure, as though expecting him to fall. Ian remained standing, however, although he was weak.

"Come on." Marrow said to the tired boy, encouragement mixing with his bleak view of the situation in his voice. 

_Strength, Ian_ , he said to himself, reminded of Kris. _Gather your strength_. He steadied himself and walked next to Marrow, away from the awful metal chair forever. Marrow only stepped ahead of him to open the door, but walked slowly in sync with him through the hospital hallway, ready to protect him in case he fell. Ian was breathing heavily as they walked past white walls in silence, and Marrow remained silent, only nodding respectfully at nurses and personnel whom they walked past.

After several minutes of their slow walk, Marrow and Ian saw the sun through the doors once again, one more relieved than the other. Marrow was used to the hospital boxing him in, but Ian hoped he would never become used to such a cage. Still, both were eased by the sunshine and heat that the outdoor world gave them, and they visibly relaxed as they went to the car, Ian slightly in the lead now that Marrow did not know where he was going. They stopped at the blue sedan, and Marrow rushed to open the passenger door for Ian and help him into his seat.

He crossed the car and sat in the unfamiliar driver's seat, then waited patiently as Ian fumbled with his keys and handed them over. Marrow took them, and turned on the car.

"Ian? I need your address." He sounded concerned, and caring, pitying the young man who sat beside him, barely conscious in his chair.

"701 Oakwood Avenue, off of Brookside Drive." Ian muttered, and the car fell silent as Marrow drove him home.

It was odd for Ian to see Marrow without his doctor's jacket, and even more odd to have something this close to casual contact with him. It was clear that Marrow had been afraid to have a personal connection with him, when he was so close to death, but he was slipping now. Saying his first name, driving him home, it was all becoming abundantly clear how much he cared. It was more than just lame pity. 

But Marrow would not allow himself any closer. He could not forget that the young man sitting next to him would be dead in just a few short days. And he could not pain himself with losing someone else to cancer. So he did not speak to the man drifting in and out of consciousness, did not admit how nervous he was for him. He drove on in silence, eventually arriving at the house.

He pulled into the garage and assisted Ian in, who was stumbling and barely awake. Ian guided them to his bedroom, and Marrow helped him into the room, then watched him collapse into bed, letting out a groan. He stood there for a moment, pain clear on his features, then moved towards the bed, to help his patient. He gently pulled off the young man's sneaker's, then pulled the sheets over his body, Marrow too caring and Ian too tired for either party to feel foolish.

There was silence once again as Marrow leaned over and examined Ian's now sleeping face. He shuddered, and stood straight, aware of how bad his patient looked. He didn't have much time.

Marrow left the room on soft falling footsteps, closing the door behind him. He called a cab in the living room and waited silently, sitting at the chair usually reserved for Ian during Lunchtime with Smosh. As the minutes passed, he observed the room around him, more sadness flooding him upon realizing that the place was barren -- of course, the man was prepared for death.

The cab arrived, and Marrow, giving one last caring look to the bedroom where his patient lay, exited the house, and became indifferent, unfeeling, once more.

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man guys we're so close. i say that at the beginning of every chapter but oh man we're so close

Come Monday morning, Ian felt better, but not much. The end was still near for him, but he was just thankful he had survived through the night; after the time he had with Marrow, he was sure he'd slip away the moment his head hit that pillow. But he stayed alive, persevered, and, after several long hours of rest, drove once again, to see a man he desperately needed at that time.

He arrived a bit early as always, just because he didn't want to miss a minute's time with his friend. He sat in the waiting room and recovered the strength that was lost driving there, eyes closed, breathing deep and steady. His time with yoga, while he was strong enough to do it, had paid off, and although he found himself still weak when Ruby called his name a few minutes later, he was strong enough to walk into his friend's office once again.

Kris sat in his comfortable chair expectantly, and a sad smile came to his face when Ian walked in. Ian returned it, both grateful to see the other, but upset by the circumstances. He stepped over, shook his hand, and sat in the large chair beside Kris', heaving a great sigh as he did so. He was so often tired by then.

"How are you, m'boy?" Kris asked, voice soft, as if he was already in mourning.

"Sick. Upset." Ian felt there was so much more he could say to answer that question, but that was the simplest answer, and certainly true. 

Kris knew he was both, he had spent enough time with Ian to know of his sadness, and he could clearly see his sickness. Ian was so pale now, and so thin, his clothes loose. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his hair was dull and flat against his head, which was sprinkled in a light sweat, making him appear clammy and ill. His breath was sharp, his hands perpetually dry, his posture poor due to the lack of energy he had to sit straight. No, it should have been painfully obvious to anyone who saw him that he was inches from death.

"Upset?" Kris finally said, struggling to keep his breath from catching in his throat. Kris knew Ian would not be able to hold on for long if he saw him, whom he looked to as a father, break down.

"I wish . . ." Ian gulped and looked down at the globe for a moment. "I wish I knew you longer. You've been such a good friend. I wish we didn't have to meet this way."

He looked back up, into Kris' eyes, and saw what was almost always there; warmth, protection. Sunlight. There was never anyone like Kris. No one had ever made Ian feel loved like a son, before meeting this man. This kind, smart, gentle man, that helped him through the hardest time of his entire life, his ending, his undoing. And every ounce of hope and love Ian had ever seen was there in his eyes, his wrinkled face, his gentle smile, a driving force that pushed Ian forward, that gave him a reminder of the little bit of good that remained in the world. 

And Kris looked back at him, and he knew how much he helped the boy, and he felt a strangling sadness at his friend's future, and that sadness mixed with every other sadness he had ever felt, until any good feeling he'd once known and any relief at knowing of his help was overshadowed by this cloud, this darkness taking their sunlight away, until they were only two old men sitting together, both needing that sunlight, that reminder of what strength can give you, and how good the world can be when you have it.

"I know the circumstances of our meeting are upsetting." Kris said at last, looking upon his friend with a sad smile. "But we can't change the past. Wishing won't help us achieve our goals, Ian. Wishes are merely band-aids. To do what must be done, we need strength." Ian nodded, his eyes dry of tears. "Please, Ian, remember to have strength. Think of all that is good, all that is warm. Gather strength from where you can, and fight the storm until it passes. And it will pass, it always does."

Ian swallowed thickly and nodded, the sadness over them fighting the words, but those words were the truth, and they were as strong as mankind had the ability to be.

"Just stay strong now, Ian. It will all be over soon." Kris said to him, tears in his eyes, and his sad smile faded.

"Thank you, Kris. Thank you so much." Ian said, sad smile also gone as he nodded seriously to his great friend. 

The pair stood, facing each other, and Kris enveloped him in a warm hug. Ian stayed silent, sadness making his whole body physically ache, but he did love his hug. He never got to say goodbye to his father, and while he hoped the hug he was in wasn't a goodbye, while he hoped he would be alive to see the man next week, he knew that if he died, that moment was enough. 

A tear spilled down Kris' cheek as he embraced the friend. "Farewell, my boy." They stood still for one more moment, before releasing each other. Kris, hand on Ian's arm, nodded seriously once more, the warmth burning encouragingly in his eyes, and Ian nodded to him, weak and tired, in an unspoken promise. He would stay strong. He took a step back, then walked slowly out of the office, not looking back in fear of losing control, of bursting into tears and clinging to Kris and begging for a world where there was no pain, a world that could never be. No. He could not turn around, he could not lose his strength. He gave Ruby a respectful nod, and she nodded back knowingly as he continued out the door. Kris stood, watching, arm still outstretched. He had said farewell for a reason. He knew Ian wasn't coming back.

***

Ian had been exhausted by the time he got home, and sat on the couch for a long time, staring blankly at the dark television screen. The emotions of the therapy session had worn him down, and he wanted a moment without thought or feeling. But of course, after a second, thought and feeling reigned once again, buzzing in his mind and jumping along his nerves.

He was scared. He was always scared; scared someone would find out, scared of how they would treat him, scared of dying. But at that moment, he was especially scared of leaving Anthony before they could finish all of the mail.

The mail, which they'd been opening on Mailtime with Smosh for awhile, was still in a stack in the garage, large, but not as large as it had once been. Ian had been determined over the past two months to finish it all, for several reasons. He wanted to read it all because it was from the fans, and he didn't want to miss anything great that they could've sent. He also didn't want the pile of mail sitting in the garage when his mother had to sell the house. But, most importantly, he didn't want Anthony to be stuck with it after his death -- he couldn't imagine what his friend would do with it all.

So he stood, and dragged in as much mail as he and Anthony could open in the few hours they had, but disappointment flooded him when he noticed there was still some left. It would be impossible to finish the mail this week. As he grabbed a tissue and wiped some sweat from his forehead, a product of lifting the mail and the Summer heat, he could only hope that he would be able to finish it the following week, or even stay alive until then.

Anthony arrived a few minutes later, the permanent look of worry still on his brow. He never said a word to Ian about his mild concern, thinking things weren't that bad, that maybe his friend was just tired, a little under the weather and suffering from his low blood pressure, and only gave him a customary greeting and went to get the camera instead.

"Hey guys, welcome to yet another Mailtime with Smosh!" Anthony said with extra zeal to the camera, then sat on the ground next to Ian. They were sitting closer and closer towards the end, as though Ian subconsciously wanted Anthony protecting him, and Anthony wanted to do the protecting.

"Time for some mail!" Ian said to the camera with a forced smile. He was not sure how much longer he could go on. He spent the episode with that forced smile, and many more like it; he enjoyed his fan's mail, and Anthony's presence, but he was sick and tired, and no longer had the strength to be as jovial as he once was.

"Ian, I think this candy is pois-" Anthony made a face and fell over, playing dead at the end of the episode, something Ian no longer did. There was a moment of silence.

"I hope this is a valuable lesson to you all about taking candy from strangers." Ian finally said to the camera, fake smile now gone from his face, as he was too tired to pretend now. "Thanks for watching, leave a suggestion for Ian is Bored down below, even though we won't do it. Bye, bitch!"

Anthony laughed a little as Ian turned off the camera. In a comfortable (but tired) silence, they cleaned up what was left after the episode, Ian remaining seated the entire time. As Anthony stood and placed the camera on the table, Ian was reminded of what he needed to say.

"Oh, hey, no filming this week, it's July fourth on Wednesday." Ian insisted with a smile, but he was actually just too sick to pretend in front of the crew.

"Oh yeah, I got it." Anthony smiled back, though with worry and uncertainty. "I think we've cleaned up pretty good, I'm gonna head home. See you later."

"Yeah, see you." Ian smiled at his friend, still on the ground, and watched Anthony walk out the door without another word.

_Please, just one more week_ , Ian thought of the mail, desperation in his head. _Just one more week._

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ian's kind of a dick in this one

Ian was sitting in his room on the hottest day of the year thus far, protected by the air conditioner, when his mother called. He would normally let it go to the machine, his guilt at his own impending death causing him to avoid her, but he knew what she would say, so he picked up.

"Hey, Mom!" His voice was falsely cheery.

"Hello, sweetheart!" Her bubbly, caring voice responded. "I'm so glad to hear your voice, it's been so long since we've talked."

"Yeah, I know." Ian answered, the guilt in his voice apparent for a moment. "I've just been busy with Smosh and stuff."

"Well that's okay, honey, you're working hard and making me proud." His mother said with understanding.

Ian sucked in a breath and screwed his eyes shut, trying not to let his emotions get to him. He wasn't ready to break down, not yet. "Thanks, Mom." He mumbled after a moment.

"But I hope you can take time to come over tomorrow. We have this block party every fourth of July, I'd hate for you to miss it." His mother said, full of hope.

"Of course I will, Mom, I wouldn't miss your favorite day of the year." Ian answered, distant, his eyes still closed.

"Great!" His mother didn't notice the flat tone of his voice. "I'll see you at noon tomorrow, sweetie, love you!"

"I love you too, Mom." Ian said, throat tight, and hung up the phone. He sat for a long time, completely still on his bed. The only noises to be heard were the air conditioner and Ian's weak breathing. He was not deep in thought, not struggling over a great decision. One lie before him, but thought was unnecessary, for his answer was clear; he had to tell her. He had to tell his mother he had terminal cancer.

***

It was almost twelve when Ian pulled up to a street perpendicular to the one he grew up on, the actual road barricaded with orange cones. The block party had not yet started, but there was already a lot of action in the small, normally silent neighborhood;a bouncy house was being inflated, water balloons were being filled, popcorn and cotton candy machines were preparing their treats, a piñata was being tied to a tree, paper streamers were sitting in the branches, limp from the lack of wind.

Ian knew he would be unable to have fun with all of the kids and teens in the neighborhood, as he had done every year since he was little, but a small smile came to his face as he walked down the road anyway, the cheer of the party planners and goers infectious. He found his mother in her front yard, talking to her neighbor about the amount of paper plates they had, and took a moment to compose himself. It was too hot to wear a hoodie, so his thin, pale arms were visible beneath his too big tee, and he was already sweating from the panic he had driving there. He was terrified he would be unable to drive, as he was Sunday, terrified that he would die before telling his mother he had to do so. He took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

"Hey, Mom!" he called out, and grinned when his mother turned around and gave him a wide smile, then a little laugh of surprise when he pulled a small bundle of blue hydrangeas from behind his back, which he bought on the way over.

"Honey!" She walked to him quickly and took the flowers from him, then gave him a tight hug. His joy from the hug left him quickly, though, when he realized that she could feel how thin he was, and pulled away, hiding his sadness with another smile. His mother did not notice, and admired her flowers, calling over her neighbor, Mrs. Ryan, to show them off, and brag about Ian and his career, and remind Ian how much he missed home. Mrs. Ryan was a kind old woman, his mother's best friend, and he could clearly remember being a teenager, leaving at night in the Summer to have fun with his friends, and seeing them sitting on her porch with iced tea and gossip, a little image in his mind that made him nostalgic whenever he thought of it.

His mother, after a few minutes of small talk, pulled him away, into the house, where she chatted amiably as she put the flowers in a vase, filled it with water, and placed them in the fridge to protect them from the warm Summer air. She then pulled him again, all throughout his house, which was full of neighbors and visitors, and then through the yard and all down the road, chattering away about Ian and everything he's done, bragging with pride and thoroughly embarrassing her only son. His sister, still in Pennsylvania, would have to be fawned over some other time.

It was around one o'clock when Ian's mother released him, to tend to the food and welcome everyone who had arrived. Ian smiled until she no longer saw him, then, worn down, went to sit on the rocking chair on Mrs. Ryan’s porch. He took a few minutes to take deep breaths, gathering strength and clearing his mind. He had been numb for the past hour he'd been at the party, shutting out his feelings so he wouldn't be overcome. Now, however, it was hard not to feel a sweet sorrow as he stared out to the crowd.

A few mothers were setting up limbo across from him. One of the fathers was juggling to impress his young daughter and her friends. The girl from down the road who was about to go to college, Amy, was painting a little boy's face, while his friend stood watching and munching popcorn. A group of teenage boys were blowing up balloons in the yard, gleefully telling each other that when they finished blowing them up, they would use the helium to raise their voices. An elderly man, to whom Ian could relate, was sitting at a plastic table, rubbing his knuckles and complaining about his arthritis, before seeing his old wife approach, then laughing and removing a deck of cards from his front pocket to play with her.

All of them reminded Ian of his better times, and all of them reminded him how much beauty still survived in this world. It was over for him; he was an old man now, the oldest one there, but all of these people were lucky enough to keep going. They were going to live short lives and long ones, happy and sad, filled with different experiences. No matter what happened to those people, they would still have good lives, even if they never realized it, because they got to live in such a beautiful world. Because they helped make it beautiful.

Ian spent most of his final block party in that chair, watching kids play with maracas, jump in the bouncy house, run from water balloon fights that were more enjoyed by the teenagers and fun-loving adults. The real food started being served around five, a wide array of sandwiches, hamburgers and hot dogs, and hot Italian and Spanish food, but Ian's stomach twisted, so he ate little. He selected some watermelon before returning back to the chair, then smiled at the sight of everyone, children, teens, adults and the elderly, sit around on plastic chairs, lawns and curbs, enjoying a meal together.

He was an old man, wise with experience, knowing the wonders of the world, the wonders others could not appreciate until they were as close to death as he was. Sunlight and laughter, family and friends, Summer and flowers and blue. If everyone in the world had realized how lovely this all was before they hurt, before they hated, how peaceful it could have been.

It was nearly six when the deejay, who was playing many different types of music as to please everyone in the crowd, started playing an older song, one Ian did not recognize. A few feet away, he heard Mrs. Ryan’s laugh.

"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" She called to his mother, who nodded and gave a large laugh. She looked around and spotted Ian, then smiled.

"Come dance with me, sweetie!" She called out to him, and he tensed in his chair, but answered casually.

"Maybe later, Mom." he called back with a smile.

She stomped her foot playfully. "But this is such a good song! Come on, hon, just do this, and I won't make you do the macarena."

Ian laughed and stood slowly, and his mother let out a cheer as he walked towards her and grabbed her hands. Rolling his eyes, but smiling, he danced along to the happy tune, admiring his mother's smile. He really had missed her, having so little contact with her after he discovered he had cancer that he forgot how much he loved her. She raised him and his sister, mostly on her own. They were both successful, one of them was happy. The other was dying, but that wasn't her fault. It wasn't any person's fault.

Time sped up. He wanted the song to be longer, he wanted more time with her, with everyone. But that was impossible, and the song was over quickly, and he was out of breath and in his chair, and she was off enjoying herself with another friend. It hurt, it felt unfair. But he pushed that sadness away, and focused on enjoying the few moments he had left with her. 

Night came after the cake, dancing, games of tag, truth or dare, listening to stories while making s’mores, watching the sunset, waiting for the fireflies. When the moths were surrounding the street lamps, and the crickets as loud as the party, the music was turned off, and the fireworks were lit. Ian stood next to his mother, watching them and the full moon light up the darkness. 

He turned and looked at his mother's care worn face, illuminated by the flashes of red and gold. This was it. This would be one of the last moments she lived without knowing her son had cancer. A bright firework boomed in the sky, and her face glowed from her smile and the white light. Ian sighed sadly, and clapped with the rest of them. He would let her have that day. Just that day. And then, the next, he would break her heart.

The party dispersed slowly after the fireworks were finished. Some drove away, some retired to their houses, some stayed in the houses of the people on the block, either too tired or too drunk to drive home. Ian could recall several block parties when a drunk teen or two crashed on their couch, and was made breakfast in the morning by his mother. He would stay at his childhood home overnight as well, but in his old bedroom.

He was sitting on his bed, knowing his mother had already fallen asleep, at nearly one in the morning. Sadly, he stared at the desk across from him, neat from his mother's cleaning after he left home, but still containing loose papers and fond memories. He sighed. The room was important to him, it was the start of something. He sat at that desk and wrote ideas for videos. He and Anthony filmed in there, packaged the first T-shirts to sell in there. He grew up there, and now he was in there again, twenty four years old, and it would be his final visit.

Ian kicked off his shoes, slowly removed his shirt and jeans, and curled up in bed in just his boxers and socks. He stared blankly at the desk once more, then felt heat in his face as tears began to fall. Silently, he cried, tired and upset and afraid. He would die. He would never see the room again. He would never see his mother again. She would die after him, and his sister would sell the house and throw away their belongings, and the world would keep turning. He wanted to assume this was a good thing, the world going on, but it caused a sadness in his chest that made him ache for a reason he couldn't put into words.

***

Ian awoke early the next morning and was ill, as he usually was, but in his mother's house instead of his own. He slowly went to take a shower, his mind purposely blank; he did not want to think of what he had to do later.

His mother was in the kitchen, fiddling with the coffee maker, humming that song from yesterday. He stood at the end of the hallway, taking deep breaths, watching her last few moments of sweet unawareness. On the outside, he was strong. On the inside, he was breaking.

"Good morning, Mom." He said to her, and she turned and smiled. 

"Hello, dear. Would you like some breakfast?" He wished she wasn't so loving, so caring. It only made things harder.

"No thanks. Can you sit down for a minute? I need to talk to you." Ian, attempting to keep his face neutral, motioned to the couch. His mother still smiled.

"Of course, honey." She left the coffee machine and sat on the couch, Ian trailing behind her. Slowly, he sat next to her, then positioned himself as to face her.

"Mom." He began softly, solemn. His eyes searched her face, and saw her smile fade as she figured out something was wrong. "I have cancer."

Shock, pain, and terror flashed on her face. She stared at him, completely still, then after a moment began to shake her head. She made several attempts to speak, but words failed her. At last, she forced them out, but her sadness had wreaked havoc upon them. "But . . . but Ian . . . no, no, no . . ."

And her "no's," her protest continued as sobs escaped her, and she broke down in front of her dying son. Ian sighed, tears forming in his own eyes, as she leaned into him, and he embraced her in a hug. He could feel her shaking, tears already dampening his shirt. All Ian wanted was for all of it to stop. To just not be happening. Anything else.

He felt wrong telling her. He felt like a sadist, causing a nice old woman such harm. He felt selfish, he felt dirty. Like he had a duty to protect her from all the sadness in the world, and he failed. He felt guilty, like he shouldn't have said it. He needed to take it back. He needed to ease her pain.

"Mom? It's -- it's okay." He said softly, desperately to her, still holding her. "My insurance covers a surgery for me. It looks like it's really gonna help."

She pulled back, and looked at his face, tears in his eyes, and pouring from hers. "Really?"

"Yeah." He choked out the lie. "The doctor said it's not too serious, and that the surgery's probably going to fix it. I'm having it in a few weeks."

"Oh, honey, that's wonderful news!" She smiled through her tears, hopeful. "So you're going to be okay?"

"Yeah, Mom." He said with a soft smile. "Every -- everything's going to be fine. Just don't tell Anthony, okay? Not yet, I don't want him to be worried. I'll . . . I'll tell him myself, when the best time comes." He didn't want Anthony to find out from his mother. He didn't want him to find out at all; he could not bear to see that kind of sadness again.

She nodded. "I won't, dear, I promise, let's just thank heavens. I'm so glad you're alright. Do you want some coffee?"

"No." He said quickly, not wanting to stay and risk breaking down or accidentally confessing. "I have a lot of work to do." He lied as he stood and kissed his mother's cheek.

"Okay, honey. You'll call me before your surgery, right? I want to hear more about it." She wiped her tears and looked at him, eyes full of hope.

"Of course." He answered, throat tight.

"Good. I'll talk to you later, sweetie." She gave him a small smile.

"You too." He answered quietly, and hurried out, forcing his emotions away from him as the tears threatened to spill over. He drove home without thinking, without feeling, and found himself in his normal place once more, away from his mother and his childhood home.

He sat in his bedroom, looking around at the absence of items, most of them having been donated less than two weeks previous, but it felt like so much longer. But he would not allow himself to ponder on that sadness, for he had one more thing he had to do that day. He took out his phone, and called Anthony.

"Hello?" He picked up quickly.

"Hey, Ant, listen, I got food poisoning at the block party yesterday, I don't think I can film next week."

"Oh, man, that sucks." Ian could hear the pity and disappointment in his friend's voice. "Okay, well, let me know when you feel up to it, and we'll resume filming. I'll call the crew and tell them to take some days off."

"Thanks, man." was the only way Ian could respond, glad that Anthony bought his lie, but hurt at knowing that, in reality, he was just too sick to be with the crew anymore. 

"It's no problem, Ian." He hesitated. "I just want you to be okay."

Ian was silent, not sure how to respond. Anthony was concerned, no doubt because of his low blood pressure, but he couldn't lie, he couldn't say he was okay. He just couldn't.

"I gotta go, okay? Get better." Anthony said after a moment of silence.

"Bye." Ian said flatly, the only thing he could.

"Bye." Anthony hung up.

Ian was a mess of thoughts and feelings, but was sick and weak, and spent the rest of that day, and the day following, alone in bed. No visitors, no texts or calls, just the faint rustling of Charlie in his cage and the hum of the air conditioner. Outside, the days were warm and vibrant, similar to the weather while filming the last Lunchtime with Smosh, days Ian could only appreciate from the view from his window. He was detached from the rest of the world, shunned in a loneliness he hated, just to save his family some pain, just to save himself some pity. But by then, the loneliness, the detachment, would have been the same, whether surrounded by loved ones or not. And he was starting to realize it.

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is it! the final chapter. it's been an amazing run, thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and commenting, you're all lovely little things. now i'll speak with you again at the end of the story, but for now, sit back and enjoy!!

It was Saturday, and Ian could barely move in his sheets. He got up to use the bathroom, and return to his bed, but these actions were rare and slow. He could feel death, he knew it was close now. The whole house had become like a cage, containing it, and death hid in corners and spread across rooms like a wave. He could sense the cold, the lack of movement, the total silence. Outside, the world kept going, but in his house, death was impatient, death was waiting for him.

He was up at noon, and went to the computer room, sitting uneasily in the chair in front of the desk. He moved the mouse slowly, not wanting to do it, but feeling it was for the best. He went to Facebook and stared at his newsfeed; nothing important, just the usual girls complaining or guys talking about normal things. He sighed, and went to the security settings, then clicked to deactivate his account. "Are you sure?" read a message from Facebook. The profile pictures of five of his friends lay below these words, one of them being Anthony. He shook his head, and then deactivated the account before he could change his mind, knowing he had made the decision to delete the account months ago. He took a deep breath, then moved on to the next site.

He logged into Twitter, then scrolled through his mentions. "@SmoshIan, r u ok?? :(" "@SmoshIan, you look sick..:(" The fans had been concerned for him ever since they discovered his "low blood pressure," but slowly, they had become more and more aware that something was very wrong. He looked at the tweets for one more minute, a painful sadness filling him, before going to his account settings, and deleting his Twitter. He left the Smosh blog on Tumblr, knowing Anthony used it as well.

He shut down the computer, and slowly retreated to his room, feeling the silence of his house putting an intense pressure on his ears. Sadness filled him like warm water, searing and pressing, but he did his best to accept it. He was dying, and sadness was inevitable now. On the way to his bed, he had a foolish thought, but couldn't push it away. Slowly, with a groan of pain, he kneeled next to his bed, placing his elbows on the mattress, and folding his hands. 

He believed in the universe. He believed in the Big Bang. He believed in emptiness after death. Yet his ending sparked his fear, so he did what he thought he would never do- he prayed.

"God." He began, voice sounding strange in the unearthly silence of his home. "I just wanted to pray. Just in case. I don't believe you're there." he gulped. "But maybe you are. Maybe you're listening. Maybe, right now, you're waiting to send me to Heaven, or Hell. I -- I don't know where I'd go." his voice shook. "I just want the pain to go away. Everything hurts. Everything."

Tears threatened him, but he took a deep breath, and continued. "I know that, if you are real, I won't get into Heaven just by asking, but I'd like to ask, anyway. Please, just let me in. Or let me not feel like this anymore. Like I'm breaking, but so damn _slowly_. I hung in there for my family, but I don't know if I can anymore. I'm not sure if you're aware, but I think having cancer is the closest thing we have to Hell on Earth."

A tear fell down his cheek, but he continued, still shaking. "Just make sure Mom and Ant are alright. Please. And Mel. Kris. Deacon Franklin. My sister. Charlie. I know that if you're real, you probably can't guarantee anything, but please, please, try to protect whoever you can. Mom and Ant, especially. They're -- they mean so much to me. I love them so, so much. Amen."

He got into his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was trying to find peace, trying to accept that he was dying and go out gracefully, but it was hard. It was hard to make peace when there was so much pain and sadness, guilt and regret. Hard to find peace when he was leaving so much behind. When he was feeling every emotion in the world, all at once.

***

He stayed up very late that night, staring at the wall. He was tired and restless, yet could not sleep. There was something he was denying for a very long time, something nagging him. The chance that it was a very bad idea not telling Anthony he was dying.

His stomach pinched him, and Ian reminded himself that he was sparing Anthony some pain, but at the same time wondered if the shock of his death would make things even worse.

He spent hours remembering every moment he had with Anthony, the good and the bad, everything he had thought of when he decided to never tell him that one day at lunch. Meeting him, falling for him, giving him up. Realizing the feelings were still there. When he decided to never tell Anthony, he justified it as saving him. But it wasn't, not now.

Towards the beginning, yes, hiding it from them was the right thing, it was protecting all of them. But he was inches from death, and realized this wasn't about protecting them anymore. It was about protecting himself. He was a coward, he could not see Anthony's pain.

But he couldn't fully accept that, not after months in denial. So he turned in his bed and slept, avoiding the sad, harsh truth. Anthony should've known by then.

***

It was almost eight in the morning the next day, Sunday, July eighth. It was perfectly sunny outside, and insanely beautiful, birds chirping and children playing. But inside Ian's home, the air was still, and there was a chilling silence. The sun shone in from the windows, and the dust in the air was visible, suspended particles floating but barely moving.

In his room, Ian was lying in bed, staring at Charlie's cage in a sad silence, not really thinking of anything, just feeling. Feeling an odd swirl of both painful and pleasant emotions, although he was unsure if this mix made his situation better or worse.

Suddenly, he was stricken with nausea, and he quickly abandoned his bed in favor of the bathroom. Entering the room, he quickly kneeled down in front of the toilet, and felt hot vomit rise in his body. It burned his throat and pushed out of his mouth, then fell sickeningly into the toilet, splashing into the water with a cringe-worthy sound. Ian, head aching, breathed heavy, and then heaved again. Once more, the sludge oozed from him, causing him to shake and sweat, pain pricking his mouth and throat, and searing his forehead.

He stared down at the vomit, swirls of blood and bile in the water. It coiled and settled slowly and sickeningly, reminding Ian how much he hated vomiting. But the blood, that was different to him, unseen since his last nosebleed. With a shaking hand, he grabbed at the roll of toilet paper beside him, and blew his nose. Nothing. It was not bleeding.

Panic floored him. If the blood in his vomit was not caused by a nosebleed, it meant something far more serious. It meant the end. He stood up quickly, and felt dizzy, head splitting. Scared, he ran from his bathroom, into the hallway. His head was burning with pain, and he was dizzy, unable to keep his balance. The light faded in and out, pitching him in temporary moments of darkness as he stumbled. Weak, hurt, desperate, he fell. 

As he lie on the floor, blood dripped from his mouth, and after a shocked moment, he made an attempt to stand back up. But try as he might, he could not push hard enough, not move enough, not _be_ enough anymore. He had no strength, and couldn't save himself. He remembered Doctor Marrow's words. _Call an ambulance . . . when you think you're at the end._

Ian breathed hard, face twisted in pain, then reached down to the pocket in his jeans, gratitude rushing through him when he realized he had his phone. He pulled it out slowly, and made the call.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Hi, I need help, I collapsed and I can't get up. I -- I have cancer."

"Okay, there's an ambulance on the way, just hang in there. Are you okay?" The woman from the other side of the line spoke to him, but it sounded faint and far away. The light was fading in and out once again, and the pain in his head grew so much, he couldn't breathe without feeling as though he had been stabbed through his skull. Eyes squeezed shut, he could not respond to the woman who tried so desperately to talk to him, to help him, because the pain fought him too hard. He moved in and out of consciousness for several minutes, shaking in pain as the blood dripped from his mouth and his stomach felt like it was tearing itself apart. The last thing he saw in that house was a man from the ambulance, kneeling over him in a useless attempt to help.

***

He woke up to a blinding white. His first feeling was shock, which subsided when he realized where he was, in a hospital room. Whatever pain he had was subdued, still there but not as bad, like a bruise after a fall. He felt tired and groggy, but opened his eyes fully anyway, and looked around.

There, in a chair just a few feet away from him, sat Doctor Marrow. His hands were twisting in his lap, head hanging, but he looked up when he heard Ian's shallow breathing become irregular as he awoke. For one second, their eyes connected, and Ian saw the man look at him in total pity, with only pain in his eyes. Then, Marrow stood, gave him a nod of respect, and left the room without saying another word, knowing what emotions were stirring inside him, knowing what was about to happen.

Ian watched him leave, then turned his head, and saw on the nightstand beside his bed, a pad of paper and a pen. He did not know why he reached for them, why he wrote what he wrote; it was simply a much needed catharsis, a lifting of a great weight from his weak chest, accepting his denial far too late. He took the pen to the paper, and wrote quickly in sloppy handwriting.

_Anthony-_

_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I'm leaving you. You'll never know how sorry I am. I don't want to go. I don't want it to end._

_I never told you because I was scared. I didn't want things to change. I didn't want you to pity me, I didn't want everything to be weird, I didn't want our relationship to be ruined._

_But then I waited awhile, then it was too long. And I didn't tell you because I wanted to protect you from the pain. I didn't want you to hate me. I didn't want to die miserable because of what I said or did to you. But I feel like shit, and I bet I would feel like shit whether you were with me right now or not. I should have told you. I should have warned you, I should have been a better friend._

_I did the best I could, but I was blinded, because I was in love. In high school, God, I had such a crush on you, Ant, but I wasn't sure about anything, and then you were embarrassed, and then Frankie yelled at us -- I decided to just force myself to like girls, to let you be happy. I just want you to be happy. But I can't protect you from everything, like I tried to with this cancer. It hurt to tell my mom, but it doesn't matter, because she deserved to know, like you deserved to know. You've been too good a friend not to know._

_Please, don't stop going. Don't stop living. Grow up, get old. Be grateful for everything you have, because I wasn't, and now I have nothing._

_Take care of Charlie for me._

_I love you. And I'm so sorry._

_\- Ian._

Ian placed the notepad and pen gently back onto the table, then sighed and rested his head against the pillow. He was so tired now.

Outside the door, a nurse popped her head into the room. "Mr. Hecox, your emergency contact, your mother, she just got the call, she's on her way now." 

He nodded, and she left. He settled into the pillow once again, and stared at the white ceiling for a few seconds more, before closing his eyes. And then, with a dull pain, he realized his mother would not make it in time. And that was his final thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, take a minute, cry if you need to. now with all that said and done, one can't help but feel that the story isn't all done. that's why a sequel will be posted within the month! Recovery will follow Anthony's journey of self-discovery as he discovers what was really going on with his best friend. I'm looking forward to another story with you guys!! and if you're interested, you can find me on tumblr, my username is jackiestolz :))


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